, 


The  Honor  of 
The   Big   Snows 

By  JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 


Author  of  "The  Danger  Trail/'  "The  Courage 
Captain  Plum,"  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT  1911 
BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


THE  HONOR 
OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    MUSIC 

LSTEN,  John— I  hear  music—" 
The  words  came  in  a  gentle  whisper  from 
the  woman's  lips.    One  white,  thin  hand  lifted  it 
self  weakly  to  the  rough  face  of  the  man  who  was 
kneeling  beside  her  bed,  and  the  great  dark  eyes 
from  which  he  had  hidden  his  own  grew  luminously 
bright  for  a  moment,  as  she  whispered  again : 
"John — I  hear — music — " 

A  sigh  fluttered  from  her  lips.  The  man's  head 
drooped  until  it  rested  very  near  to  her  bosom.  He 
felt  the  quiver  of  her  hand  against  his  cheek,  and 
in  its  touch  there  was  something  which  told  John 
Cummins  that  the  end  of  all  life  had  come  for  him 

I 


l; 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

and  for  her.  His  heart -beat  fiercely,  and  his  great 
shoulders  shook  with  the  agony  that  was  eating  at 
his  soul. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  pretty  music,  my  Melisse,"  he  mur 
mured  softly,  choking  back  his  sobs.  "It  is  the 
pretty  music  in  the  skies." 

The  hand  pressed  more  tightly  against  his  face. 

"It's  not  the  music  in  the  skies,  John.  It  is  real 
— real  music  that  I  hear — " 

"It's  the  sky  music,  my  sweet  Melisse!  Shall  I 
open  the  door  so  that  we  can  hear  it  better  ?" 

The  hand  slipped  from  his  cheek.  Cummins 
lifted  his  head,  slowly  straightening  his  great  shoul 
ders  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  white  face,  from 
which  even  the  flush  of  fever  was  disappearing,  as 
he  had  seen  the  pale  glow  of  the  northern  sun  fade 
before  a  thickening  snow.  He  stretched  his  long, 
gaunt  arms  straight  up  to  the  low  roof  of  the  cabin, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  prayed — prayed 
to  the  God  who  had  made  for  him  this  world  of 
snow  and  ice  and  endless  forest  very  near  to  the 
dome  of  the  earth,  who  had  given  him  this  woman, 
and  who  was  now  taking  her  from  him. 

2 


THE    MUSIC 

When  he  looked  again  at  the  woman,  her  eyes 
were  open,  and  there  glowed  in  them  still  the  feeble 
fire  of  a  great  love.  Her  lips,  too,  pleaded  with  him 
in  their  old,  sweet  way,  which  always  meant  that  he 
was  to  lass  them,  and  stroke  her  hair,  and  tell  her 
again  that  she  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
whole  world. 

"MyF'lisse!" 

He  crushed  his  face  to  her,  his  sobbing  breath 
smothering  itself  in  the  soft  masses  of  her  hair, 
while  her  arms  rose  weakly  and  fell  around  his 
neck.  He  heard  the  quick,  gasping  struggle  for 
breath  within  her  bosom,  and,  faintly  again,  the 
words : 

"It — is — the — music? — of — my — people!'* 

"It  is  the  music  of  the  angels  in  the  skies,  my 
sweet  Melisse!  It  is  our  music.  I  will  open  the 
door." 

The  arms  had  slipped  from  his  shoulders.  Gently 
he  ran  his  rough  fingers  through  the  loose  glory  of 
the  woman's  hair,  and  stroked  her  face  as  softly 
as  he  might  have  caressed  the  cheek  of  a  sleeping 
child, 

3 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   Sl^OWS 

"I  will  open  the  door,  Melisse." 

His  moccasined  feet  made  no  sound  as  he  moved 
across  the  little  room  which  was  their  home.  At 
the  door  he  paused  and  listened ;  then  he  opened  it, 
and  the  floods  of  the  white  night  poured  in  upon 
him  as  he  stood  with  his  eyes  turned  to  where  the 
cold,  pale  flashes  of  the  aurora  were  playing  over 
the  pole.  There  came  to  him  the  hissing,  saddening 
song  of  the  northern  lights — a  song  of  vast,  unend 
ing  loneliness,  which  they  two  had  come  to  know  as 
the  music  of  the  skies. 

Beyond  that  mystery-music  there  was  no  sound. 
To  the  eyes  of  John  Cummins  there  was  no  visible 
movement  of  life.  And  yet  he  saw  signs  of  it — • 
signs  which  drew  his  breath  from  him  in  choking 
gulps,  and  which  sent  him  out  into  the  night,  so  that 
the  woman  might  not  hear. 

It  was  an  hour  past  midnight  at  the  post,  which 
had  the  Barren  Lands  at  its  back  door.  It  was  the 
hour  of  deep  slumber  for  its  people;  but  to-night 
there  was  no  sleep  for  any  of  them.  Lights  burned 
dimly  in  the  few  rough  log  homes.  The  company's 
store  was  aglow,  and  the  factor's  office,  a  haven  f<y 

4 


THE    MUSIC 

the  men  of  the  wilderness,  shot  one  gleaming  yel 
low  eye  out  into  the  white  gloom.  The  post  was 
awake.  It  was  waiting.  It  was  listening.  It  was 
watching. 

As  the  woman's  door  opened,  wide  and  brimful 
of  light,  a  door  of  one  of  the  log  houses  opened, 
and  then  another,  and  out  into  the  night,  like  dim 
shadows,  trod  the  moccasined  men  from  the  factor's 
office,  and  stood  there  waiting  for  the  word  of  life 
or  death  from  John  Cummins.  In  their  own  fash 
ion  these  men,  who,  without  knowing  it,  lived  very 
near  to  the  ways  of  God,  sent  mute  prayers  into 
the  starry  heavens  that  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
the  world  might  yet  be  spared  to  them. 

It  was  just  two  summers  before  that  this  beauti 
ful  thing  had  come  into  Cummins'  life,  and  into  the 
life  of  the  post.  Cummins,  red-headed,  lithe  as  a 
cat,  big-souled  as  the  eternal  mountain  of  the  Crees, 
and  the  best  of  the  company's  hunters,  had  brought 
Melisse  thither  as  his  bride.  Seventeen  rough  hearts 
had  welcomed  her.  They  had  assembled  about  that 
little  cabin  in  which  the  light  was  shining  now, 
speechless  in  their  adoration  of  this  woman  who 

5 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

had  come  among  them,  their  caps  in  their  hands, 
their  faces  shining,  their  eyes  shifting  before  the 
glorious  ones  that  looked  at  them  and  smiled  at 
them  as  the  woman  shook  their  hands,  one  by  one. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  strictly  beautiful,  as  most 
people  judge;  but  she  was  beautiful  here,  four  hun 
dred  miles  beyond  civilization.  Mukee,  the  half- 
Cree,  had  never  seen  a  white  woman,  for  even  the 
factor's  wife  was  part  Chippewayan;  and  no  one 
of  the  others  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  southern 
wilderness  more  than  once  each  twelvemonth  or  so. 

Melisse's  hair  was  brown  and  soft,  and  it  shone 
with  a  sunny  glory  that  reached  far  back  into  their 
conception  of  things  dreamed  of  but  never  seen. 
Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  early  wild  flowers  that 
came  after  the  spring  floods,  and  her  voice  was  the 
sweetest  sound  that  had  ever  fallen  upon  their  ears. 
So  these  men  thought  when  Cummins  first  brought 
home  his  wife,  and  the  masterpiece  which  each  had 
painted  in  his  soul  and  brain  was  never  changed. 
Each  week  and  month  added  to  the  deep-toned  value 
of  that  picture,  as  the  passing  of  a  century  might 
add  to  a  Raphael  or  a  Vandyke. 

6 


THE   MUSIC 

The  woman  became  more  human,  and  less  an 
angel,  of  course,  but  that  only  made  her  more  real, 
and  allowed  them  to  become  acquainted  with  her, 
to  talk  with  her,  and  to  love  her  more.  There  was 
no  thought  of  wrong,  for  the  devotion  of  these  men 
was  a  great,  passionless  love  unhinting  of  sin. 
Cummins  and  his  wife  accepted  it,  and  added  to  it 
when  they  could,  and  were  the  happiest  pair  in  all 
that  vast  Northland. 

The  girl — she  was  scarce  more  than  budding  into 
womanhood — fell  happily  into  the  ways  of  her  new 
life.  She  did  nothing  that  was  elementally  unusual, 
nothing  more  than  any  pure  woman  reared  in  the 
love  of  God  and  of  a  home  would  have  done.  In 
her  spare  hours  she  began  to  teach  the  half-dozen 
wild  little  children  about  the  post,  and  every  Sun 
day  she  told  them  wonderful  stories  out  of  the  Bible. 
She  ministered  to  the  sick,  for  that  was  a  part  of 
her  code  of  life.  Everywhere  she  carried  her  glad 
smile,  her  cheery  greeting,  her  wistful  earnestness, 
to  brighten  what  seemed  to  her  the  sad  and  lonely 
lives  of  these  silent  men  of  the  North. 

And  she  succeeded,  not  because  she  was  unlike 

7 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

other  millions  of  her  kind,  but  because  of  the  differ 
ence  between  the  fortieth  degree  and  the  sixtieth — 
the  difference  in  the  viewpoint  of  men  who  fought 
themselves  into  moral  shreds  in  the  big  game  of  life 
and  those  who  lived  a  thousand  miles  nearer  to  the 
dome  of  the  earth. 

A  few  days  before  there  had  come  a  wonderful 
event  in  the  history  of  the  company's  post.  A  new 
life  was  born  into  the  little  cabin  of  Cummins  and 
his  wife.  After  this  the  silent,  wordless  worship  of 
their  people  was  filled  with  something  very  near  to 
pathos.  Cummins'  wife  was  a  mother!  She  was 
one  of  them  now,  an  indissoluble  part  of  their  ex 
istence — a  part  of  it  as  truly  as  the  strange  lights 
for  ever  hovering  over  the  pole,  as  surely  as  the 
countless  stars  that  never  left  the  night  skies,  as 
surely  as  the  endless  forests  and  the  deep  snows ! 

Then  had  come  the  sudden  change,  and  the  gloom, 
that  brought  with  it  the  shadow  of  death,  fell  like 
a  pall  upon  the  post,  stifling  its  life,  and  bringing 
with  it  a  grief  that  those  who  lived  there  had  never 
known  before. 

There  came  to  them  no  word  from  Cummins  now. 
8 


THE    MUSIC 

He  stood  for  a  moment  before  his  lighted  door,  and 
then  went  back,  and  the  word  passed  softly  from 
one  to  another  that  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world  was  still  living  her  sweet  life  in  that  little 
cabin  at  the  end  of  the  clearing. 

"You  hear  the  music  in  the  skies — now,  my 
Melisse?"  whispered  the  man,  kneeling  beside  her 
again.  "It  is  very  pretty  to-night !" 

"It  was  not  that,"  repeated  the  woman. 

She  attempted  to  stroke  his  face,  but  Cummins 
saw  nothing  of  the  effort,  for  the  hand  lay  all  but 
motionless.  He  saw  nothing  of  the  fading  softness 
that  glowed  in  the  big,  loving  eyes,  for  his  own 
eyes  were  blinded  by  a  hot  film.  And  the  woman 
saw  nothing  of  the  hot  film,  so  torture  was  saved 
them  both.  But  suddenly  the  woman  quivered,  and 
Cummins  heard  a  thrilling  sound. 

"It  is  the  music !"  she  panted.  "John,  John,  it  is 
• — the  music — of — my — people !" 

The  man  straightened  himself,  his  face  turned 
to  the  open  door.  He  heard  it  now!  Was  it  the 
blessed  angels  coming  for  his  Melisse?  He  rose, 
a  sobbing  note  in  his  throat,  and  went,  his  arms 

9 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

stretched  out,  to  meet  them.  He  had  never  heard  a 
sound  like  that — never  in  all  his  life  in  this  endless 
wilderness. 

He  went  from  the  door  out  into  the  night,  and, 
step  by  step,  through  the  snow  toward  the  black 
edge  of  the  spruce  forest.  The  sobs  fell  chokingly 
from  his  lips,  and  his  arms  were  still  reaching  out 
to  greet  this  messenger  of  the  God  of  his  beloved; 
for  Cummins  was  a  man  of  the  wild  and  manner 
less  ways  of  a  savage  world,  and  he  knew  not  what 
to  make  of  this  sweetness  that  came  to  them  from 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  black  forest. 

"My  Melisse !    My  Melisse !"  he  sobbed. 

A  figure  came  from  the  shadows,  and  with  the 
figure  came  the  music,  sweet  and  soft  and  low. 
John  Cummins  stopped  and  turned  his  face  straight 
up  to  the  sky.  His  heart  died  within  him. 

The  music  ceased,  and  when  he  looked  again  the 
figure  was  close  to  him,  staggering  as  it  walked,  and 
a  face  white  and  thin  and  starved  came  with  it.  It 
was  a  boy's  face. 

"For  the  museek  of  the  violon — something  to  eat !" 
he  heard,  and  the  thin  figure  swayed  and  fell  almost 

10 


THE    MUSIC 

into  his  arms.  The  voice  came  weak  again.  "Thees 
is  Jan — Jan  Thoreau — and  his  violon — " 

The  woman's  bloodless  face  and  her  great  staring 
dark  eyes  greeted  them  as  they  entered  the  cabin. 
As  the  man  knelt  beside  her  again,  and  lifted  her 
head  against  his  breast,  she  whispered  once  more : 

"It  is  the — music — of  my  people — the  violin!" 

John  Cummins  turned  his  head. 

"Play!"  he  breathed. 

"Ah,  the  white  angel  is  seek — ver'  seek,"  mur 
mured  Jan,  and  he  drew  his  bow  gently  across  the 
strings  of  his  violin. 

From  the  instrument  there  came  something  so 
soft  and  sweet  that  John  Cummins  closed  his  eyes 
as  he  held  the  woman  against  his  breast  and  listened. 
Not  until  he  opened  them  again,  and  felt  a  strange 
chill  against  his  cheek,  did  he  know  that  his  be 
loved's  soul  had  gone  from  him  on  the  gentle  music 
of  Jan  Thoreau's  violin. 


CHAPTER   II 

MUKEE'S  STORY 

FOR  many  minutes  after  the  last  gentle  breath 
had  passed  from  the  woman's  lips,  Jan  Thoreau 
played  softly  upon  his  violin.  It  was  the  great, 
heart-broken  sob  of  John  Cummins  that  stopped 
him.  As  tenderly  as  if  she  had  fallen  into  a  sweet 
sleep  from  which  he  feared  to  awaken  her,  the  man 
unclasped  his  arms  and  lowered  his  wife's  head  to 
the  pillow ;  and  with  staring  black  eyes  Jan  crushed 
his  violin  against  his  ragged  breast  and  watched  him 
as  he  smoothed  back  the  shimmering  hair  and  looked 
long  and  hungrily  into  the  still,  white  face. 

Cummins  turned  to  him,  and,  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  cabin,  their  eyes  met.  It  was  then  that  Jan 
Thoreau  knew  what  had  happened.  He  forgot  his 
starvation.  He  crushed  his  violin  closer,  and  whis 
pered  to  himself : 

12 


MUKEE'S    STORY 

"The  white  angel  ees — gone !" 

Cummins  rose  from  the  bedside,  slowly,  like  a 
man  who  had  suddenly  grown  old.  His  moccasined 
feet  dragged  as  he  went  to  the  door.  They  stumbled 
when  he  went  out  into  the  pale  star-glow  of  the 
night. 

Jan  followed,  swaying  weakly,  for  the  last  of  his 
strength  had  gone  in  the  playing  of  the  violin.  Mid 
way  in  the  cabin  he  paused,  and  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a  wild,  strange  grief  as  he  gazed  down  upon 
the  still  face  of  Cummins'  wife,  beautiful  in  death 
as  it  had  been  in  life,  and  with  the  sweet  softness 
of  life  still  lingering  there.  Some  time,  ages  and 
ages  ago,  he  had  known  such  a  face,  and  had  felt 
the  great  clutching  love  of  it. 

Something  drew  him  to  where  John  Cummins 
had  knelt,  and  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  gazed  hun 
grily  and  longingly  where  John  Cummins  had  gazed. 
His  pulse  was  beating  feebly,  the  weakness  of  seven 
days'  starvation  blurred  his  eyes,  and  unconsciously 
he  sank  over  the  bed  and  one  of  his  thin  hands 
touched  the  soft  sweep  of  the  woman's  hair.  A 
stifled  cry  fell  from  him  as  he  jerked  himself  rig- 

13 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

idly  erect;  and  as  if  for  the  desecration  of  that  touch 
there  was  but  one  way  of  forgiveness,  he  drew  his 
violin  half  to  his  shoulder,  and  for  a  few  moments 
played  so  softly  that  none  but  the  spirit  of  the 
woman  and  himself  could  hear. 

Cummins  had  partly  closed  the  door  after  him; 
but  watchers  had  seen  the  opening  of  it.  A  door 
opened  here,  and  another  there,  and  paths  of  yellow 
light  flashed  over  the  hard-trodden  snow  as  shadowy 
life  came  forth  to  greet  what  message  he  brought 
from  the  little  cabin. 

Beyond  those  flashes  of  light  there  was  no  other 
movement,  and  no  sound.  Dark  figures  stood  mo 
tionless.  The  lonely  howl  of  a  sledge-dog  ended  in 
a  wail  of  pain  as  some  one  kicked  it  into  terrified 
silence.  The  hollow  cough  of  Mukee's  father  was 
smothered  in  the  thick  fur  of  his  cap  as  he  thrust  his 
head  from  his  little  shack  in  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
A  score  of  eyes  watched  Cummins  as  he  came  out 
into  the  snow,  and  the  rough,  loyal  hearts  of  those 
who  looked  throbbed  in  fearful  anticipation  of  the 
word  he  might  be  bringing  to  them. 

Sometimes  a  nation  ceases  to  breathe  in  the  last 
14 


MUKEE'S    STORY 

moments  of  its  dying  chief,  and  the  black  wings  of 
calamity  gather  over  its  people,  enshrouding  them  in 
a  strange  gloom  and  a  stranger  fear ;  and  so,  because 
the  greatest  of  all  tragedies  had  come  into  their  little 
world,  Cummins'  people  were  speechless  in  their 
grief  and  their  waiting  for  the  final  word.  And 
when  the  word  came  to  them  at  last,  and  passed 
from  lip  to  lip,  and  from  one  grim,  tense  face  to  an 
other,  the  doors  closed  again,  and  the  lights  went 
out  one  by  one,  until  there  remained  only  the  yellow 
eye  of  the  factor's  office  and  the  faint  glow  from  the 
little  cabin  in  which  John  Cummins  knelt  with  his 
sobbing  face  crushed  close  to  that  of  his  dead. 

There  was  no  one  who  noticed  Jan  Thoreau  when 
he  came  through  the  door  of  the  factor's  office.  His 
coat  of  caribou-skin  was  in  tatters.  His  feet  thrust 
themselves  from  the  toes  of  his  moccasins.  His  face 
was  so  thin  and  white  that  it  shone  with  the  pallor 
of  death  from  its  frame  of  straight  dark  hair.  His 
eyes  gleamed  like  black  diamonds.  The  madness  of 
hunger  was  in  him. 

An  hour  before,  death  had  been  gripping  at  his 
throat,  when  he  stumbled  upon  the  lights  of  the  post 

15 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

That  night  he  would  have  died  in  the  deep  snows. 
Wrapped  in  its  thick  coat  of  bearskin  he  clutched 
his  violin  to  his  breast,  and  sank  down  in  a  ragged 
heap  beside  the  hot  stove.  His  eyes  traveled  about 
him  in  fierce  demand.  There  is  no  beggary  among 
these  strong-souled  men  of  the  far  North,  and  Jan's 
lips  did  not  beg.  He  unwrapped  the  bearskin,  and 
whispered : 

"For  the  museek  of  the  vlolon — something  to  eat !" 

He  played,  even  as  the  words  fell  from  him,  but 
only  for  a  moment — for  the  bow  slipped  from  his 
nerveless  grip  and  his  head  sank  forward  upon  his 
breast. 

In  the  half-Cree's  eyes  there  was  something  of  the 
wild  beauty  that  gleamed  in  Jan's.  For  an  instant 
those  eyes  had  met  in  the  savage  recognition  of 
blood;  and  when  Jan's  head  fell  weakly,  and  his 
violin  slipped  to  the  floor,  Mukee  lifted  him  in  his 
strong  arms  and  carried  him  to  the  shack  in  the 
edge  of  the  spruce  and  balsam. 

And  there  was  no  one  who  noticed  Jan  the  next 
day — except  Mukee.  He  was  fed.  His  frozen  blood 
grew  warm.  As  life  returned,  he  felt  more  and  more 

16 


MUKEE'S    STORY 

the  pall  of  gloom  that  had  settled  over  this  spark 
of  life  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness.  He  had  seen 
the  woman,  in  life  and  in  death,  and  he,  too,  loved 
her  and  grieved  that  she  was  no  more.  He  said 
nothing;  he  asked  nothing;  but  he  saw  the  spirit  of 
adoration  in  the  sad,  tense  faces  of  the  men.  He 
saw  it  in  the  terror-stricken  eyes  of  the  wild  little 
children  who  had  grown  to  worship  Cummins'  wife. 
He  read  it  in  the  slinking  stillness  of  the  dogs,  in  the 
terrible,  pulseless  quiet  that  had  settled  about  him. 

It  was  not  hard  for  Jan  to  understand,  for  he,  too, 
worshiped  the  memory  of  a  white,  sweet  face  like 
the  one  that  he  had  seen  in  the  cabin.  He  knew  that 
this  worship  at  Lac  Bain  was  a  pure  worship,  for 
the  honor  of  the  big  snows  was  a  part  of  his  soul.  It 
was  his  religion,  and  the  religion  of  these  others  who 
lived  four  hundred  miles  or  more  from  a  southern 
settlement. 

It  meant  what  civilization  could  not  understand — 
freezing  and  slow  starvation  rather  than  theft,  and 
respect  for  the  tenth  commandment  above  all  other 
things.  It  meant  that  up  here,  under  the  cold  chill 
of  the  northern  skies,  things  were  as  God  meant 

17 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

them  to  be,  and  that  a  few  of  His  creatures  could 
live  in  a  love  that  was  neither  possession  nor  sin. 

A  year  after  Cummins  brought  his  wife  into  the 
North,  a  man  came  to  the  post  from  Fort  Churchill, 
bn  Hudson's  Bay.  He  was  an  Englishman,  belonging 
to  the  home  office  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  in 
London.  He  brought  with  him  something  new,  as 
the  woman  had  brought  something  new ;  only  in  this 
instance  it  was  an  element  of  life  which  Cummins' 
people  could  not  understand. 

It  breathed  of  tragedy  from  the  first,  to  the  men 
of  the  post.  To  the  Englishman,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  promised  to  be  but  an  incident — a  passing  adven 
ture  in  pleasure.  Here  again  was  that  difference  of 
viewpoint — the  eternity  of  difference  between  the 
middle  and  the  end  of  the  earth. 

Cummins  was  away  for  a  month  on  a  trap-line 
that  went  into  the  Barren  Lands.  At  these  times 
the  woman  fell  as  a  heritage  to  those  who  remained, 
and  they  watched  over  her  as  a  parent  might  guard 
its  child.  Yet  the  keenest  eyes  would  not  have  per 
ceived  that  this  was  so. 

With  Cummins  gone,  the  tragedy  progressed 
18 


MUKEE'S    STORY 

swiftly  toward  finality.  The  Englishman  came  from 
among  women.  For  months  he  had  been  in  a  tor 
ment  of  desolation.  Cummins'  wife  was  to  him  like 
a  flower  suddenly  come  to  relieve  the  tantalizing 
barrenness  of  a  desert;  and  with  the  wiles  and  ways 
of  civilization  he  sought  to  breathe  its  fragrance. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  he  talked 
a  great  deal,  when  heated  by  the  warmth  of  th$ 
box  stove  and  by  his  own  thoughts;  and  this  was 
because  he  had  not  yet  measured  the  hearts  of 
Cummins'  people.  And  because  the  woman  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  said  about  the  box  stove,  she 
continued  in  the  even  course  of  her  pure  life,  neither 
resisting  nor  encouraging  the  new-comer,  yet  ever 
tempting  him  with  that  sweetness  which  she  gave  to 
all  alike. 

As  yet  there  was  no  suspicion  in  her  soul.  She 
accepted  the  Englishman's  friendship,  for  he  was  a 
stranger  among  her  people.  She  did  not  hear  the 
false  note,  she  saw  no  step  that  promised  evil.  Only 
the  men  at  the  post  heard,  and  saw,  and  understood. 

Like  so  many  faithful  beasts,  they  were  ready  to 
spring,  to  rend  flesh,  to  tear  life  out  of  him  who 

19 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

threatened  the  desecration  of  all  that  was  good  and 
pure  and  beautiful  to  them;  and  yet,  dumb  in  their 
devotion  and  faith,  they  waited  and  watched  for  a 
sign  from  the  woman.  The  blue  eyes  of  Cummins' 
wife,  the  words  of  her  gentle  lips,  the  touch  of  her' 
hands,  had  made  law  at  the  post.  If  she  smiled  upon 
the  stranger  and  talked  with  him,  and  was  pleased 
with  him,  that  was  only  one  other  law  that  she  had 
made  for  them  to  respect.  So  they  were  quiet, 
evaded  the  Englishman  as  much  as  possible,  and 
watched — always  watched. 

One  day  something  happened.  Cummins'  wife 
came  into  the  company's  store;  and  a  quick  flush 
shot  into  her  cheeks,  and  the  glitter  of  blue  diamonds 
into  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  stranger  standing 
there.  The  man's  red  face  grew  redder,  and  he 
shifted  his  gaze.  When  Cummins'  wife  passed  him, 
she  drew  her  skirt  close  to  her;  and  there  was  the 
poise  of  a  queen  in  her  head,  the  glory  of  wife  and 
womanhood,  the  living,  breathing  essence  of  all  that 
was  beautiful  in  her  people's  honor  of  the  big 
snows. 

That  night  Mukee,  the  half-Cree,  slunk  around 
20 


MUKEE'S    STORY 

in  the  edge  of  the  forest  to  see  that  all  was  well  in 
Cummins'  little  home.  Once  Mukee  had  suffered  a 
lynx-bite  that  went  clear  to  the  bone,  and  the  woman 
had  saved  his  hand.  After  that,  the  savage  in  him 
was  enslaved  to  her  like  an  invisible  spirit. 

He  crouched  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  snow,  look 
ing  at  the  pale  filter  of  light  that  came  through  a 
hole  in  the  curtain  of  the  woman's  window;  and  as 
he  looked  something  came  between  him  and  the 
light.  Against  the  cabin  he  saw  the  shadow  of  a 
sneaking  human  form;  and  as  silently  as  the  steely 
flash  of  the  aurora  over  his  head,  as  swiftly  as  a 
lean  deer,  he  sped  through  the  gloom  of  the  forest's 
edge  and  came  up  behind  the  woman's  home. 

With  the  caution  of  a  lynx,  his  head  close  to  the 
snow,  he  peered  around  the  logs.  It  was  the  Eng 
lishman  who  stood  looking  through  the  tear  in  that 
curtained  window. 

Mukee's  moccasined  feet  made  no  sound.  His 
hand  fell  as  gently  as  a  child's  upon  the  stranger's 
arm. 

"Thees  is  not  the  honor  of  the  beeg  snows,"  he 
whispered.  "Come!" 

21 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

A  sickly  pallor  filled  the  other  man's  face;  but 
Mukee's  voice  was  soft  and  dispassionate,  his  touch 
was  velvety  in  its  hint,  and  he  went  with  the  guiding 
hand  away  from  the  curtained  window,  smiling  in  a 
companionable  way.  Mukee's  teeth  gleamed  back. 
The  Englishman  chuckled. 

Then  Mukee's  hands  changed.  They  flew  to  the 
thick,  reddening  throat  of  the  man  from  civilization, 
and  without  a  sound  the  two  sank  together  upon  the 
snow. 

The  next  day  a  messenger  behind  six  dogs  set  out 
for  Fort  Churchill,  with  word  for  the  company's 
home  office  that  the  Englishman  had  died  in  the  big 
snow — which  was  true. 

Mukee  told  this  to  Jan,  for  there  was  the  bond  of 
blood  between  them.  It  was  a  painting  of  life,  and 
love,  and  purity.  Deep  down  in  the  loneliness  of  his 
heart,  Jan  Thoreau,  in  his  own  simple  way,  thanked 
the  great  God  that  it  had  been  given  to  him  to  play 
his  violin  as  the  woman  died. 


22 


CHAPTER  III 

LITTLE    MELISSE 

THE  passing  of  Cummins'  wife  was  as  quiet 
as  had  been  her  coming.  With  bare  heads, 
their  shaggy  hair  falling  wildly  about  their  faces, 
their  lips  set  tight  to  choke  back  their  grief,  the  few 
at  the  post  went,  one  by  one,  into  the  little  cabin,  and 
gazed  for  the  last  time  upon  her  face.  There  was 
but  one  sound  other  than  the  gentle  tread  of  their 
moccasined  feet,  and  that  was  a  catching,  sobbing 
moan  that  fell  from  the  thick  gray  beard  of  Wil 
liams,  the  old  factor. 

After  that  they  carried  her  to  where  a  clearing 
had  been  cut  in  the  edge  of  the  forest;  and  at  the 
foot  of  a  giant  spruce,  towering  sentinel-like  to  the 
sky,  they  lowered  her  into  the  frozen  earth.  Gasp 
ingly,  Williams  stumbled  over  the  words  on  a  ragged 
page  that  had  been  torn  from  a  Bible.  The  rough 

23 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

men  who  stood  about  him  bowed  their  wild  heads 
upon  their  breasts,  and  sobs  broke  from  them. 

At  last  Williams  stopped  his  reading,  stretched 
his  long  arms  above  his  head,  and  cried  chokingly : 

"The  great  God  keep  Mees  Cummins  I" 

As  the  earth  fell,  there  came  from  the  edge  of  the 
forest  the  low,  sweet  music  of  Jan  Thoreau's  violin. 
No  man  in  all  the  world  could  have  told  what  he 
played,  for  it  was  the  music  of  Jan's  soul,  wild  and 
whispering  of  the  winds,  sweetened  by  some  strange 
inheritance  that  had  come  to  him  with  the  picture 
which  he  carried  in  his  throbbing  heart. 

He  played  until  only  the  tall  spruce  and  John 
Cummins  stood  over  the  lone  grave.  When  he 
stopped,  the  man  turned  to  him,  and  they  went  to 
gether  to  the  little  cabin  where  the  woman  had  lived. 

There  was  something  new  in  the  cabin  now — a 
tiny,  white,  breathing  thing  over  which  an  Indian 
woman  watched.  The  boy  stood  beside  John  Cum 
mins,  looking  down  upon  it,  and  trembling. 

"Ah,"  he  whispered,  his  great  eyes  glowing.  "It 
ees  the  lee  tie  white  angel !" 

"It  is  the  little  Melisse,"  replied  the  man. 
24 


LITTLE   MELISSE 

He  dropped  upon  his  knees,  with  his  sad  face  close 
to  the  new  life  that  was  to  take  the  place  of  the 
one  that  had  just  gone  out.  Jan  felt  something  tug 
ging  in  a  strange  way  at  his  heart,  and  he,  too,  fell 
upon  his  knees  beside  John  Cummins  in  this  first 
worship  of  the  child. 

From  this  hour  of  their  first  kneeling  before 
the  little  life  in  the  cabin,  something  sprang  up 
between  Jan  Thoreau  and  John  Cummins  which  it 
would  have  been  hard  for  man  to  break.  Looking 
up  after  many  moments'  contemplation  of  the  little 
Melisse,  Jan  gazed  straight  into  Cummins'  face, 
and  whispered  softly  the  word  which  in  Cree  means 
"father."  This  was  Jan's  first  word  for  Melisse. 

When  he  looked  back,  the  baby  was  wriggling  and 
kicking  as  he  had  seen  tiny  wolf-whelps  wriggle 
and  kick  before  their  eyes  were  open.  His  beautiful 
eyes  laughed.  As  cautiously  as  if  he  were  playing 
with  hot  iron,  he  reached  out  a  thin  hand,  and  when 
one  of  his  fingers  suddenly  fell  upon  something  very 
soft  and  warm,  he  jerked  it  back  as  quickly  as  if  he 
had  been  burned. 

That  night,  when  Jan  picked  up  his  violin  to  go 
25 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

back  to  Mukee's  cabin,  Cummins  put  his  two  big 
hands  on  the  boy's  shoulders  and  said : 

"Jan,  who  are  you,  and  where  did  you  come 
from?" 

Jan  stretched  his  arm  vaguely  to  the  north. 

"Jan  Thoreau,"  he  replied  simply.  "Thees  is  my 
violon.  We  come  alone  through  the  beeg  snow." 

Cummins  stared  as  if  he  saw  a  wonderful  picture 
in  the  boy's  eyes.  He  dropped  his  hands,  and  walked 
to  the  door.  When  they  stood  alone  outside,  he 
pointed  up  to  the  stars,  and  to  the  mist-like  veil  of 
silver  light  that  the  awakening  aurora  was  spreading 
over  the  northern  skies. 

"Get  your  bearings,  and  tell  me  again  where  you 
came  from,  Jan !" 

Unhesitatingly  the  boy  pointed  into  the  north. 

"We  starve  seven  day  in  the  beeg  snow.  My 
violon  keep  the  wolf  off  at  night." 

"Look  again,  Jan!  Didn't  you  come  from  there, 
or  there,  or  there  ?" 

Cummins  turned  slowly,  facing  first  to  the  east  and 
Hudson's  Bay,  then  to  the  south,  and  lastly  to  the 
west.  There  was  something  more  than  curiosity  it 

26 


LITTLE    MELISSE 

the  tense  face  that  came  back  in  staring  inquiry  to 
Jan  Thoreau. 

The  boy  hunched  his  shoulders,  and  his  eyes 
flashed. 

"It  ees  not  lie  that  Jan  Thoreau  and  hees  violon 
come  through  the  beeg  snow,"  he  replied  softly.  "It 
ees  not  lie !" 

There  was  more  than  gentleness  in  John  Cum 
mins'  touch  now.  Jan  could  not  understand  it,  but 
he  yielded  to  it,  and  went  back  into  the  cabin.  There 
was  more  than  friendship  in  Cummins'  eyes  when 
he  placed  his  hands  again  upon  the  boy's  shoulders, 
and  Jan  could  not  understand  that. 

"There  is  plenty  of  room  here — now,"  said  Cum 
mins  huskily.  "Will  you  stay  with  the  little  Melisse 
and  me?" 

"With  the  leetle  Melisse !"  gasped  the  boy.  Softly 
he  sped  to  the  tiny  cot  and  knelt  beside  it,  his  thin 
shoulders  hunched  over,  his  long  black  hair  shining 
lustrously  in  the  lamp-glow,  his  breath  coming  in 
quick,  sobbing  happiness.  "I — I — stay  with  the  lee 
tle  white  angel  for  ever  and  ever !"  he  whispered,  his 
Words  meant  only  for  the  unhearing  ears  of  the 

27 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

child.     "Jan  Thoreau  will  stay,  yes— and  hees  vio- 
lon!    I  give  it  to  you — and  ze  museek !" 

He  laid  his  precious  violin  across  the  foot  of  the 
cot 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    PROBLEM 

IN  the  days  that  followed,  there  came  other  things 
which  Jan  could  not  understand,  and  which  he 
made  no  great  effort  to  understand.  He  talked  little, 
even  to  Cummins.  He  listened,  and  his  eyes  would 
answer,  or  he  would  reply  with  strange,  eery  little 
hunches  of  his  shoulders,  which  ruffled  up  his  hair. 
To  the  few  simple  souls  at  the  post,  he  brought  with 
him  more  than  his  starved  body  from  out  of  the  un 
known  wilderness.  This  was  the  chief  cause  of  those 
things  which  he  could  not  understand. 

No  man  learned  more  of  him  than  had  Cummins. 
Even  to  Mukee,  his  history  was  equally  simple  and 
short.  Always  he  said  that  he  came  from  out  of  the 
north — which  meant  the  Barren  Lands;  and  the 
Barren  Lands  meant  death.  No  man  had  ever  come 
across  them  as  Jan  had  come;  and  at  another  time, 

29 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

and  under  other  circumstances,  Cummins  and  his 
people  would  have  believed  him  mad. 

But  others  had  listened  to  that  strange,  sweet 
music  that  came  to  them  from  out  of  the  forest  on 
the  night  when  the  woman  died,  and  they,  like  Cum 
mins,  had  been  stirred  by  thrilling  thoughts.  They 
knew  little  of  God,  as  God  is  preached;  but  they 
knew  a  great  deal  about  Him  in  other  ways.  They 
knew  that  Jan  Thoreau  had  come  like  a  messenger 
from  the  angels,  that  the  woman's  soul  had  gone  out 
to  meet  him,  and  that  she  had  died  sweetly  on  John 
Cummins'  breast  while  he  played.  So  the  boy,  with 
his  thin,  sensitive  face  and  his  great,  beautiful  eyes, 
became  a  part  of  what  the  woman  had  left  behind 
for  them  to  love.  As  a  part  of  her  they  accepted 
him,  without  further  questioning  as  to  who  he  was 
or  whence  he  came. 

In  a  way,  he  made  up  for  her  loss.  The  woman 
had  brought  something  new  and  sweet  into  their 
barren  lives,  and  he  brought  something  new  and 
sweet — the  music  of  his  violin.  He  played  for  them 
in  the  evening,  in  the  factor's  office;  and  at  these 
times  they  knew  that  Cummins'  wife  was  very  near 

30 


THE    PROBLEM 

to  them  and  that  she  was  speaking  to  them  through 
the  things  which  Jan  Thoreau  played. 

Music  had  long  passed  out  of  their  lives.  Into 
some,  indeed,  it  had  never  come.  Years  ago,  Wil 
liams  had  been  at  a  post  where  there  was  an  ac 
cordion.  Cummins  had  heard  music  when  he  went 
down  to  civilization  for  his  wife,  more  than  two 
years  ago.  To  the  others  it  was  mystery  which 
stirred  them  to  the  depths  of  their  souls,  and  which 
revealed  to  them  many  things  that  had  long  been  hid 
den  in  the  dust  of  the  past. 

These  were  hours  of  triumph  for  Jan  in  the  fac 
tor's  office.  Perched  on  a  box,  with  his  back  to  the 
wall,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  black  eyes  shining, 
his  long  hair  giving  to  his  face  a  half  savage  beauty, 
he  was  more  than  king  to  the  grim-visaged  men 
about  him.  They  listened,  movelessly,  soundlessly; 
and  when  he  stopped  there  was  still  neither  move 
nor  sound  until  he  had  wrapped  his  violin  in  its  bear 
skin  and  had  returned  to  John  Cummins  and  the  lit 
tle  Melisse.  Jan  understood  the  silence,  and  took  it 
for  what  it  meant 

But  it  was  the  audience  in  the  little  cabin  that  Jan 


I      THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 
/ 

Hiked  best,  and,  most  of  all,  he  loved  to  have  the  little 

Melisse  alone.  As  the  days  of  early  spring  trapping 
approached,  and  the  wilderness  for  a  hundred  miles 
laround  the  post  was  crisscrossed  with  the  trails  of 
the  Cree  and  Chippewayan  fur-seekers,  Cummins 
was  absent  for  days  at  a  time,  strengthening  the 
company's  friendships,  and  bargaining  for  the  catch 
that  would  be  coming  to  market  about  eight  weeks 
later. 

This  was  a  year  of  intense  rivalry,  for  the  Revil- 
lons,  French  competitors  of  the  company,  had  es 
tablished  a  post  two  hundred  miles  to  the  west,  and 
rumor  spread  that  they  were  to  give  sixty  pounds 
of  flour  to  the  company's  forty,  and  four  feet  of 
cloth  to  the  yard.  This  meant  action  among  Wil 
liams  and  his  people,  and  the  factor  himself  plunged 
into  the  wilderness.  Mukee,  the  half -Cree,  went 
among  his  scattered  tribesmen  along  the  edge  of  the 
barrens,  stirring  them  by  the  eloquence  of  new 
promises  and  by  fierce  condemnation  of  the  inter 
lopers  to  the  west.  Old  Per-ee,  with  a  strain  of 
Eskimo  in  him,  went  boldly  behind  his  dogs  to  meet 
ihe  little  black  people  from  farther  north,  who  came 

32 


THE    PROBLEM 

down  after  foxes  and  half -starved  polar  bears  that 
had  been  carried  beyond  their  own  world  on  the  ice 
floes  of  the  preceding  spring.  Young  Williams,  the 
factor's  son,  followed  after  Cummins,  and  the  rest 
of  the  company's  men  went  into  the  south  and  east. 

The  exodus  left  desolate  lifelessness  at  the  post. 
The  windows  of  the  fireless  cabins  were  thick  with 
clinging  frost.  There  was  no  movement  in  the  fac 
tor's  office.  The  dogs  were  gone,  and  wolves  and 
lynx  sniffed  closer  each  night.  In  the  oppression  of 
this  desertion,  the  few  Indian  and  half-breed  chil 
dren  kept  indoors,  and  Williams'  Chippewayan 
wife,  fat  and  lazy,  left  the  company's  store  securely 
locked. 

In  this  silence  and  lifelessness  Jan  Thoreau  felt 
a  new  and  ever-increasing  happiness.  To  him  the 
sound  of  life  was  a  thing  vibrant  with  harshness; 
quiet — the  dead,  pulseless  quiet  of  lifelessness — was 
beautiful.  He  dreamed  in  it,  and  it  was  then  that 
his  fingers  discovered  new  things  in  his  violin. 

He  often  sent  Maballa,  the  Indian  woman  who 
cared  for  Melisse,  to  gossip  with  Williams'  wife, 
so  that  he  was  alone  a  great  deal  with  the  baby.  At 

33 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

these  times,  when  the  door  was  safely  barred  against 
the  outside  world,  it  was  a  different  Jan  Thoreau  who 
crouched  upon  his  knees  beside  the  cot  His  face  was 
aflame  with  a  great,  absorbing  passion  which  at  other 
times  he  concealed.  His  beautiful  eyes  glowed  with 
hidden  fires,  and  he  whispered  soothing,  singsong 
things  to  the  child,  and  played  softly  upon  his  violin, 
leaning  his  black  head  far  down  so  that  the  baby 
Melisse  could  clutch  her  appreciative  fingers  in  his 
hair. 

"Ah,  ze  sweet  leetle  white  angel!"  he  would  cry, 
as  she  tugged  and  kicked.  "I  luf  you  so — I  luf  you, 
an'  will  stay  always,  an'  play  ze  violon!  Ah,  mon 
Dieu,  you  will  be  ze  gr-r-r-eat  bea-utiful  white  angel 
lak—her!" 

He  would  laugh  and  coo  like  a  mother,  and  talk, 
for  at  these  times  Jan  Thoreau's  tongue  was  as  volu 
ble  as  his  violin. 

Sometimes  Melisse  listened  as  if  she  understood 
the  wonderful  things  he  was  telling  her.  She  would 
lie  upon  her  back  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  her 
little  red  fists  doubled  over  his  bow,  or  a  thumb 
thrust  into  her  mouth.  And  the  longer  she  lay  like 

34 


THE    PROBLEM 

this,  gazing  at  him  blankly,  the  more  convinced  Jan 
became  that  she  was  understanding  him;  and  his 
voice  grew  soft  and  low,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  a 
soft  mist  as  he  told  her  those  things  which  John 
Cummins  would  have  given  much  to  know. 

"Some  day  you  shall  understand  why  it  happened, 
sweet  Melisse,"  he  whispered,  bringing  his  eyes  so 
near  that  she  reached  up  an  inquiring  finger  to  them. 
"Then  you  will  luf  Jan  Thoreau!" 

There  were  other  times  when  Jan  did  not  talk,  but 
when  the  baby  Melisse  talked  to  him ;  and  these  were 
moments  of  even  greater  joy.  With  the  baby  wrig 
gling  and  kicking,  and  making  queer  noises  in  her 
tiny  cot,  he  would  sit  silently  upon  his  heels,  watch 
ing  her  with  the  pride  and  happiness  of  a  mother 
lynx  in  the  first  tumbling  frolics  of  her  kittens. 

Once,  when  Melisse  straightened  herself  for  an 
instant,  and  half  reached  up  her  tiny  arms  to  him, 
laughing  and  cooing  into  his  face,  he  gave  a  glad 
cry,  crushed  his  face  down  to  hers,  and  did  what  he 
had  not  dared  to  do  before — kissed  her.  There  was 
something  about  it  that  frightened  the  little  Melisse, 
and  she  set  up  a  wailing  that  sent  Jan,  in  a  panic  of 

35 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

dismay,  for  Maballa.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he 
ventured  to  kiss  her  again. 

It  was  during  this  fortnight  of  desolation  at  the 
post  that  Jan  discovered  the  big  problem  for  himself 
and  John  Cummins.  In  the  last  days  of  the  second 
week,  he  spent  much  of  his  time  skirting  the  edge 
of  the  barrens  in  search  of  caribou,  that  there  might 
be  meat  in  plenty  when  the  dogs  and  men  returned 
a  little  later.  One  afternoon,  he  returned  early,  while 
the  pale  sun  was  still  in  the  sky,  laden  with  the  meat 
of  a  musk-ox.  As  he  came  from  the  edge  of  the  for 
est,  his  slender  body  doubled  over  under  the  weight 
of  his  pack,  a  terrifying  sight  greeted  him  in  the  lit 
tle  clearing  at  the  post. 

Upon  her  knees  in  front  of  their  cabin  was  Ma 
balla,  industriously  rolling  the  half-naked  little  Me- 
lisse  about  in  a  soft  pile  of  snow,  and  doing  her 
work,  as  she  firmly  believed,  in  a  most  faithful  and 
thorough  manner.  With  a  shriek,  Jan  threw  off  his 
pack  and  darted  toward  her  like  a  wild  thing. 

ffSa-cre  bleu — you  keel — keel  ze  leetle  Melisse!"  he 
cried  shrilly,  snatching  up  the  half-frozen  child. 
"Mon  Dieu,  she  ees  not  papoose !  She  ees  ceevilize — 

36 


THE    PROBLEM 

ceevilize!"  and  he  ran  swiftly  with  her  into  the  cabin, 
flinging  back  a  torrent  of  Cree  anathema  at  the 
dumbly  bewildered  Maballa. 

Jan  left  the  rest  of  his  musk-ox  to  the  wolves  and 
foxes.  He  went  out  into  the  snow,  and  found  half 
a  dozen  other  snow-wallows  in  which  the  helpless 
Melisse  had  taken  her  chilling  baths.  He  watched 
Maballa  with  a  new  growing  terror,  and  fifty  times 
a  day  he  said  to  her : 

"Melisse  ees  not  papoose!  She  ees  ceevilize — lak 
her!"  And  he  would  point  to  the  lonely  grave  under 
the  guardian  spruce. 

At  last  Maballa  went  into  an  ecstasy  of  under- 
handing.  Melisse  was  not  to  be  taken  out  and  rolled 
in  the  snow;  so  she  brought  in  the  snow  and  rolled 
it  over  Melisse ! 

When  Jan  discovered  this,  his  tongue  twisted  it 
self  into  sounds  so  terrible,  and  his  face  writhed  so 
fiercely,  that  Maballa  began  to  comprehend  that 
thereafter  no  snow  at  all,  either  out  doors  or  in,  was 
to  be  used  in  the  physical  development  of  the  little 
Melisse. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  problem,  and  it 
37 


HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

grew  and  burst  forth  in  all  its  significance  on  the 
day  before  Cummins  came  in  from  the  wilderness. 

For  a  week  Maballa  had  been  dropping  sly  hints 
of  a  wonderful  thing  which  she  and  the  factor's 
half -breed  wife  were  making  for  the  baby.  Jan  had 
visions  of  a  gorgeous  garment  covered  with  beads 
and  gaudy  braid,  which  would  give  the  little  Melisse 
unending  delight.  On  the  day  before  Cummins'  ar 
rival,  Jan  came  in  from  chopping  wood,  and  went 
to  the  cot.  It  was  empty.  Maballa  was  gone.  A  sud 
den  fear  thrilled  him  to  the  marrow,  and  he  sprang 
back  to  the  cabin  door,  ready  to  shriek  out  the  In 
dian  woman's  name. 

A  sound  stopped  him — the  softest,  sweetest  sound 
in  all  the  world  to  Jan  Thoreau — and  he  whirled 
around  like  a  cat.  Melisse  was  smiling  and  making 
queer,  friendly  little  signals  to  him  from  the  table. 
She  was  standing  upright,  wedged  in  a  coffin-shaped 
thing  from  which  only  her  tiny  white  face  peered 
out  at  him;  and  Jan  knew  that  this  was  Maballa's 
surprise.  Melisse  was  in  a  papoose-sling! 

"Melisse,  I  say  you  shall  be  no  papoose !"  he  cried, 
running  to  the  table.  "You  ees  ceevilize !  You  shall 

38 


THE    PROBLEM 

be  no  papoose — not  if  twen'  t'ous'nd  devil  come  tak 
JanThoreau!" 

And  he  snatched  her  from  her  prison,  flung  Ma- 
balla's  handiwork  out  into  the  snow,  and  waited  im 
patiently  for  the  return  of  John  Cummins. 


m 


CHAPTER  V 

LOVE   PATCHES 

CUMMINS  returned  the  next  day — not  that  his 
work  among  the  wild  trappers  to  the  south  was 
finished,  but  because  he  had  suffered  a  hurt  in  fall 
ing  from  a  slippery  ledge.  When  Jan,  from  his 
wood-chopping  in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  saw  the 
team  race  up  to  the  little  cabin  and  a  strange  Cree 
half  carry  the  wounded  man  through  the  door,  he 
sped  swiftly  across  the  open  with  visions  of  new 
misfortune  before  him. 

What  he  saw  when  he  reached  the  door  was  reas 
suring.  Cummins  was  upon  his  knees  beside  the  cot, 
his  big  shoulders  hunched  over,  and  Melisse  was 
welcoming  him  with  her  whole  vocabulary  of  sound. 
The  injury  to  Cummins'  leg  was  not  serious;  and 
not  being  serious,  it  was  accepted  as  a  special  inci 
dent  of  Providence  by  Jan,  for  the  new  thoughts  that 

40 


LOVE  PATCHES 

had  come  into  his  head  were  causing  him  great  un 
easiness. 

He  lost  no  time  in  revealing  his  fears,  after  Ma- 
balla  had  be^n  sent  to  the  factor's  wife.  With 
graphic  gesture  he  told  of  what  had  happened.  Cum 
mins  hobbled  to  the  door  to  look  upon  the  wallows 
in  the  snow,  and  hobbled  back  to  the  table  when  Jan 
ran  there  in  excited  imitation  of  the  way  in  which  he 
hid  found  the  little  Melisse  in  Maballa's  sling. 

"She  ees  ceevilize!"  finished  Jan  hotly.  "She  ees 
not  papoose !  She  mus'  be  lak — her!"  His  great  eyes 
shone,  and  Cummins  felt  a  thickening  in  his  throat 
as  he  looked  into  them  and  saw  what  the  boy  meant. 
"Maballa  mak  papoose  out  of  Melisse.  She  grow — 
know  not'ing,  lak  papoose,  talk  lak  papoose — " 

Jan's  feelings  overwhelmed  his  tongue.  His  shin 
ing  hair  rumpled  thickly  about  his  face  as  he  leaned 
anxiously  toward  Cummins ;  and  Cummins,  in  turn, 
stared  down  in  dumb  perplexity  upon  the  joyful 
kickings  and  wrigglings  of  the  growing  problem. 

"Ees  she  not  ceevilize?"  demanded  Jan  ecstati 
cally,  bending  his  black  head  over  her.  "Ah,  ze  sweet 
Melisse!" 

4* 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

"Yes,  she  must  be  like  her,  Jan — just  as  good  and 
just  as  sweet  and  just  as  beautiful,"  interrupted 
Cummins  gently. 

There  was  a  quick  intaking  of  his  breath  as  he 
hobbled  back  to  his  own  cot,  leaving  Jan  at  play  with 
the  baby. 

That  night,  in  the  dim,  sputtering  glow  of  an  oil- 
lamp,  John  Cummins  and  Jan  Thoreau  solemnly  set 
to  work  to  thrash  out  the  great  problem  that  had 
suddenly  entered  into  their  existence.  To  these  two 
there  was  no  element  of  humor  in  what  they  were 
doing,  for  into  their  keeping  had  been  given  a  thing 
for  which  God  had  not  schemed  them.  The  woman, 
had  she  been  there,  would  have  laughed  at  them,  and 
in  a  dozen  gentle  breaths  might  have  told  them  all 
that  the  world  held  in  secret  between  mother  and 
child ;  but,  leaving  them,  she  had  passed  on  to  them 
something  that  was  life,  like  herself,  and  yet  mys 
tery. 

Had  fate  given  Maballa  to  Melisse  for  a  mother 
there  would  have  been  no  mystery.  She  would  have 
developed  as  naturally  as  a  wolf -whelp  or  a  lynx- 
kitten,  a  savage  breath  of  life  in  a  savage  world, 

42 


LOVE  PATCHES 

waxing  fat  in  snow-baths,  arrow-straight  in  papoose- 
slings,  a  moving,  natural  thing  in  a  desolation  to 
which  generations  and  centuries  of  forebears  had 
given  it  birthright.  But  Melisse  was  like  her  mother. 
In  the  dreams  of  the  two  who  were  planning  out  her 
fate,  she  was  to  be  a  reincarnation  of  her  mother. 
That  dream  left  a  ray  of  comfort  in  Cummins' 
breast  when  his  wife  died.  It  stirred  happy  visions 
within  Jaru  And  it  ended  with  a  serious  shock  when 
Maballa  brought  into  their  mental  perspective  of 
things  the  possibilities  of  environment. 

So  far  as  Cummins  knew,  there  was  not  a  white 
woman  nearer  than  Fort  Churchill,  two  hundred 
miles  away.  In  all  that  region  he  knew  of  only  two 
full-white  men,  and  they  were  Williams  and  himself. 
The  baby  Melisse  was  hopelessly  lost  in  a  world  of 
savagery;  honest,  loyal,  big-souled  savagery — but 
savagery  for  all  that,  and  the  thought  of  it  brought 
the  shadows  of  fear  and  foreboding  to  the  two  into 
whose  lives  the  problem  had  just  come. 

Long  into  the  night  they  talked  seriously  of  the 
matter,  while  Melisse  slept;  and  the  longer  they 
talked,  the  greater  loomed  the  problem  before  them. 

43 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Cummins  fancied  that  he  already  began  to  see  signs 
of  the  transformation  in  Melisse.  She  was  passion 
ately  fond  of  the  gaudy  things  Maballa  gave  her, 
which  was  a  sign  of  savagery.  She  was  charmed  by 
confinement  in  the  papoose-sling,  which  was  another 
sign  of  it ;  and  she  had  not  died  in  the  snow-wallows 
— which  was  still  another. 

So  far  back  as  he  could  remember,  Cummins  had 
never  come  into  finger-touch  of  a  white  baby.  Jan 
was  as  blissfully  ignorant;  so  they  determined  upon 
immediate  and  strenuous  action.  Maballa  would  be 
ceaselessly  watched  and  checked  at  every  turn.  The 
Indian  children  would  not  be  allowed  to  come  near 
Melisse.  They  two — John  Cummins  and  Jan  Thor- 
eau — would  make  her  like  the  woman  who  slept  un 
der  the  sentinel  spruce. 

"She  ees  ceevilize,"  said  Jan  with  finality,  "an' 
we  mus'  keep  her  ceevilize !" 

Cummins  counted  back  gravely  upon  his  fingers. 
The  little  Melisse  was  four  months  and  eighteen 
days  old ! 

"To-morrow  we  will  make  her  one  of  those  things 
with  wheels — like  the  baby-wagons  they  have  in  the 

44 


LOVE  PATCHES 

South/'  he  said.  "She  must  not  go  in  the  papoose- 
slings!" 

"An'  I  will  teach  her  ze  museek,"  whispered  Jan, 
his  eyes  glowing.  "That  ees  ceevilize!" 

Suddenly  an  eager  light  came  into  Cummins' 
face,  and  he  pointed  to  a  calico-covered  box  stand 
ing  upon  end  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

"There  are  the  books — her  books,  Jan,"  he  said 
softly,  the  trembling  thrill  of  inspiration  in  his  voice. 
He  limped  across  the  room,  dropped  upon  his  knees 
before  the  box,  and  drew  back  the  curtain.  Jan  knelt 
beside  him.  "They  were  her  books,"  he  repeated. 
There  was  a  sobbing  catch  in  his  throat,  and  his  head 
fell  a  little  upon  his  breast.  "Now — we  will  give 
them — to  Melisse." 

He  drew  the  books  out,  one  by  one,  his  fingers 
trembling  and  his  breath  coming  quickly  as  he 
touched  them — a  dozen  worn,  dusty  things,  holding 
within  them  more  than  John  Cummins  would  ever 
know  of  the  woman  he  had  lost.  These  volumes  of 
dead  voices  had  come  with  her  into  the  wilderness 
from  that  other  world  she  had  known.  They 
breathed  the  pathos  of  her  love  from  out  of  their 

45 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

ragged  pages,  mended  in  a  hundred  places  to  keep 
them  from  falling  into  utter  ruin.  Slowly  the  man 
gathered  them  against  his  breast,  and  held  them  there 
silently,  as  he  might  have  held  the  woman,  fighting 
hard  to  keep  back  his  grief. 

Jan  thrust  a  hand  deeper  into  the  box,  and  brought 
forth  something  else — a  few  magazines  and  papers, 
as  ragged  and  worn  as  the  books.  In  these  other 
treasures  there  were  pictures — pictures  of  the  things 
in  civilization,  which  Jan  had  never  seen,  and  which 
were  too  wonderful  for  him  to  comprehend  at  first. 
His  eyes  burned  excitedly  as  he  held  up  a  gaudily 
covered  fashion  paper  to  John  Cummins. 

"Theese  are  picture  for  Melisse!"  he  whispered 
tensely.  "We  teach  her — we  show  her — we  mak  her 
know  about  ceevilize  people !" 

Cummins  replaced  the  books,  one  at  a  time,  and 
each  he  held  tenderly  for  a  moment,  wiping  and 
blowing  away  the  dust  gathered  upon  it.  At  the  last 
one  of  all,  which  was  more  ragged  and  worn  than 
the  others,  he  gazed  for  a  long  time.  It  was  a  little 
Bible,  his  wife's  Bible,  finger-worn,  patched,  pa 
thetic  in  its  poverty.  The  man  gulped  hard. 


LOVE  PATCHES 

"She  loved  this,  Jan,"  he  said  huskily.  "She  loved 
this  worn,  old  book  more  than  anything  else,  and 
little  Melisse  must  love  it  also.  Melisse  must  be  a 
Christian." 

"Ah,  yes,  ze  leetle  Melisse  mus'  love  ze  great 
God!"  said  Jan  softly. 

Cummins  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  the  sleeping  baby. 

"A  missionary  is  coming  over  from  Fort  Church 
ill  to  talk  to  our  trappers  when  they  come  in.  She 
shall  be  baptized !" 

Like  a  cat  Jan  was  on  his  feet,  his  eyes  flashing, 
his  long,  thin  ringers  clenched,  his  body  quivering 
with  a  -terrible  excitement. 

"No — no — not  baptize  by  missioner!"  he  cried. 
"She  shall  be  good,  an'  love  ze  great  God,  but  not 
baptize  by  missioner !  No — no — no !" 

Cummins  turned  upon  him  in  astonishment.  Be 
fore  him  Jan  Thoreau  stood  for  a  minute  like  one 
gone  mad,  his  whole  being  consumed  in  a  passion 
terrible  to  look  upon.  Lithe  giant  of  muscle  and 
fearlessness  that  he  was,  Cummins  involuntarily 
drew  back  a  step,  and  the  mainspring  of  instinct 

47 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

within  him  prompted  him  to  lift  a  hand,  as  if  to  ward 
off  a  leaping  thing  from  his  breast. 

Jan  noted  the  backward  step,  the  guarded  uplift 
of  hand,  and  with  an  agonized  cry  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  In  another  instant  he  had  turned,  and, 
before  Cummins'  startled  voice  found  words,  had 
opened  the  door  and  run  out  into  the  night.  The  man 
saw  him  darting  swiftly  toward  the  forest,  and  called 
to  him,  but  there  was  no  response. 

There  was  a  hot  fire  burning  in  Jan's  brain,  a  blaz 
ing,  writhing  contortion  of  things  that  brought  a 
low  moaning  from  his  lips.  He  ran  tirelessly  and 
swiftly  until  he  sank  down  upon  the  snow  in  a  silent 
place  far  from  where  he  had  left  John  Cummins. 
His  eyes  still  blazed  with  their  strange  fire  upon  the 
desolation  about  him,  his  fingers  clenched  and  un 
clenched  themselves,  digging  their  nails  into  his  flesh, 
and  he  spoke  softly  to  himself,  over  and  over  again, 
the  name  of  the  little  Melisse. 

Painting  itself  each  instant  more  plainly  through 
the  tumult  of  his  emotions  was  what  Jan  had  come 
to  know  as  the  picture  in  his  brain.  Shadowy  and 
indistinct  at  first,  in  pale,  elusive  lines  of  mental 

4S 


LOVE  PATCHES 

fabric,  he  saw  the  picture  growing ;  and  in  its  growth 
he  saw  first  the  soft,  sweet  outlines  of  a  woman's 
face,  and  then  great  luring  eyes,  dark  like  his  own — 
and  before  these  eyes,  which  gazed  upon  him  with 
overwhelming  love,  all  else  faded  away  from  before 
Jan  Thoreau.  The  fire  went  out  of  his  eyes,  his  fin 
gers  relaxed,  and  after  a  little  while  he  got  up  out  of 
the  snow,  shivering,  and  went  back  to  the  cabin. 

Cummins  asked  no  questions.  He  looked  at  Jan 
from  his  cot,  and  watched  the  boy  silently  as  he  un 
dressed  and  went  to  bed;  and  in  the  morning  the 
whole  incident  passed  from  his  mind.  The  intangible 
holds  but  little  fascination  for  the  simple  folk  who 
live  under  the  Arctic  Circle.  Their  struggle  is  with 
life,  their  joys  are  in  its  achievement,  in  their  con 
stant  struggle  to  keep  life  running  strong  and  red 
within  them.  Such  an  existence  of  solitude  and  of 
strife  with  nature  leaves  small  room  for  curiosity. 
So  the  nature  of  John  Cummins  led  him  to  forget 
what  had  happened,  as  he  would  have  forgotten  the 
senseless  running  away  of  a  sledge-dog,  and  its  sub 
sequent  return.  He  saw  no  tragedy,  and  no  promise 
of  tragedy,  in  the  thing  that  had  occurred. 

49 


THE    HONOR    OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

There  was  no  recurrence  of  the  strange  excitement 
in  Jan.  He  gave  no  hint  of  it  in  word  or  action,  and 
the  thing  seemed  to  be  forgotten  between  the  two. 

The  education  of  the  little  Melisse  began  at  once, 
while  the  post  was  still  deserted.  It  began,  first  of 
all,  with  Maballa.  She  stared  dumbly  and  with  shat 
tered  faith  at  these  two  creatures  who  told  her  of 
wonderful  things  in  the  upbringing  of  a  child — 
things  of  which  she  had  never  so  much  as  heard  ru 
mor  before.  Her  mother  instincts  were  aroused,  but 
with  Cree  stoicism  she  made  no  betrayal  of  them. 

The  leather-tanned  immobility  of  her  face  under 
went  no  whit  of  change  when  Cummins  solemnly  de 
clared  that  the  little  Melisse  was  about  to  begin 
teething.  She  sat  grimly  and  watched  them  in  silence 
when  between  them,  upon  a  bearskin  stretched  on 
the  floor,  they  tried  vainly  to  persuade  Melisse  to 
use  her  feet. 

It  was  great  fun  for  Melisse,  and  she  enjoyed  it 
immensely ;  so  that  as  the  days  passed,  and  the  post 
still  remained  deserted,  John  Cummins  and  Jan 
Thoreau  spent  much  of  their  time  upon  their  knees, 
In  their  eyes,  the  child's  progress  was  remarkable; 

50 


LOVE  PATCHES 

They  saw  in  her  an  unceasing  physical  growth,  and 
countless  symptoms  of  forthcoming  mental  develop 
ment.  She  delighted  to  pull  the  strings  of  Jan's  vio 
lin,  which  was  an  unmistakable  token  of  her  musical 
genius.  She  went  into  ecstasies  over  the  gaudy  plates 
in  the  fashion  paper.  She  fingered  them  in  sugges 
tive  and  inquiring  silence,  or  with  still  more  sugges 
tive  grunts,  and  made  futile  efforts  to  eat  them, 
which  was  the  greatest  token  of  all. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Williams  came  in  from  the 
southern  forests.  Mukee  followed  him  from  the 
edge  of  the  barrens.  Per-ee  returned  from  the  Es 
kimo  people,  three-quarters  starved  and  with  half 
of  his  dogs  stolen.  From  the  north,  east,  west,  and 
south  the  post's  fur-rangers  trailed  back.  Life  was 
resumed.  There  was  a  softness  in  the  air,  a  grow 
ing  warmth  in  the  midday  sun.  The  days  of  the  big 
change  were  near.  And  when  they  came,  John  Cum 
mins  and  Jan  Thoreau,  of  all  the  factor's  people, 
wore  patches  at  their  knee** 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAYS   OF   TRIUMPH 

ONE  afternoon,  in  the  beginning  of  the  mush- 
snow,  a  long  team  of  rakish  Malemutes, 
driven  by  an  Athabasca  French-Canadian,  raced 
wildly  into  the  clearing  about  the  post.  A  series  of 
yells,  and  the  wild  cracking  of  a  thirty- foot  caribou- 
gut  whip,  announced  that  the  big  change  was  at  hand 
— that  the  wilderness  was  awakening,  and  life  was 
drawing  near. 

The  entire  post  rushed  out  to  meet  the  new-comer 
' — men  and  dogs,  the  little  black-and-tan  children, 
and  even  Williams'  fat  and  lethargic  wife.  For  a 
few  moments  there  was  a  scene  of  wild  disorder,  of 
fighting  Malemutes  buried  under  a  rush  of  angry 
huskies,  while  men  shouted,  and  the  yelling  French 
man  leaped  about  and  cut  his  caribou-gut  in  vicious 
slashes  over  the  wolfish  horde  around  his  heavily 
laden  sledge. 

52 


DAYS    OF   TRIUMPH 

Partial  order  being  restored,  Mukee  and  Per-ee 
took  charge  of  the  snarling  Malemutes,  and,  sur 
rounded  by  Williams'  men,  the  trapper  stalked  to 
the  company's  office.  He  was  Jean  de  Gravois,  the 
most  important  man  in  the  Fond  du  Lac  country,  for 
whose  good-will  the  company  paid  a  small  bonus. 
That  he  had  made  a  record  catch  even  the  children 
knew  by  the  size  of  the  packs  on  his  sledge  and  by 
the  swagger  in  his  walk. 

Gravois  was  usually  one  of  the  last  to  appear  at 
the  annual  gathering  of  the  wilderness  fur-gather 
ers.  He  was  a  big  man  in  reputation,  as  he  was 
small  in  stature.  He  was  known  as  far  west  as  the 
Peace  River,  and  eastward  to  Fort  Churchill.  He 
loved  to  make  his  appearance  at  the  post  in  a  wild 
and  picturesque  rush  when  the  rest  of  the  forest 
rovers  were  there  to  look  on,  and  to  envy  or  admire. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  of  his  kind  who  had  devel 
oped  personal  vanity  along  with  unerring  cunning 
in  the  ways  of  the  wild.  Everybody  liked  Gravois, 
for  he  had  a  big  soul  in  him  and  was  as  fearless  as  a 
lynx;  and  he  liked  everybody,  including  himself. 

He  explained  his  early  arrival  by  announcing  in 
53 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

a  nonchalant  manner  that  after  he  had  given  his 
Malemutes  a  day's  rest  he  was  going  on  to  Fort 
Churchill,  to  bring  back  a  wife.  He  hinted,  with  a 
punctuating  crack  of  his  whip,  that  he  would  make 
a  second  visit,  and  a  more  interesting  one,  at  just 
about  the  time  when  the  trappers  were  there  in  force. 

Jan  Thoreau  listened  to  him,  hunching  his  shoul~ 
ders  a  little  at  the  other's  manifest  air  of  importance. 
In  turn,  the  French-Canadian  scrutinized  Jan  good- 
naturedly.  Neither  of  them  knew  the  part  which 
Jean  de  Gravois  was  to  play  in  Jan's  life. 

Every  hour  after  the  half-breed's  arrival  quick 
ened  the  pulse  of  expectancy  at  the  post.  For  six 
months  it  had  been  a  small  and  solitary  unit  of  life 
in  the  heart  of  a  big  desolation.  The  first  snow  had 
smothered  it  in  a  loneliness  that  was  almost  the  lone 
liness  of  desertion.  With  that  first  snow  began  the 
harvest  days  of  the  people  of  the  wilderness.  Far 
and  wide  they  were  busy  along  their  trap-lines,  their 
lonely  shacks  hidden  in  the  shelter  of  thick  swamps, 
in  deep  chasms  and  dense  forests.  For  six  months 
the  short  days  and  the  long  nights  had  been  days  and 
nights  of  fur-gathering. 

54 


DAYS   OF   TRIUMPH 

During  those  months  the  post  was  silent.  It  lived 
and  breathed,  but  that  was  all.  Its  life,  for  Williams 
and  the  few  people  whom  the  company  kept  with 
him,  was  a  life  of  waiting.  Now  the  change  was  at 
hand.  It  was  like  the  breath  of  spring  to  the  awaken 
ing  wilderness.  The  forest  people  were  moving. 
Trap-lines  were  being  broken,  shacks  abandoned, 
sledge-dogs  put  to  harness.  On  the  day  that  Jean  de 
Gravois  left  for  Hudson's  Bay,  the  company's  sup 
plies  came  in  from  Fort  Churchill — seven  toboggans 
drawn  by  Eskimo  dogs,  laden  with  flour  and  cloth ; 
fifty  pounds  of  beads,  ammunition,  and  a  hundred 
other  things  to  be  exchanged  for  the  furs  that  would 
soon  be  in  London  and  Paris. 

Fearfully  Jan  Thoreau  ran  out  to  meet  the  sledges. 
There  were  seven  Indians  and  one  white  man.  Jan 
thrust  himself  close  to  look  at  the  white  man.  He 
wore  two  revolver-holsters  and  carried  an  automatic. 
Unquestionably  he  was  not  a  missionary,  but  an 
agent  of  the  company  well  prepared  to  care  for  the 
company's  treasure. 

Jan  hurried  back  to  the  cabin,  his  heart  bubbling 
with  a  strange  joy. 

55 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

*There  ees  no  missioner,  Melisse!"  he  cried  tri 
umphantly,  dropping  beside  her,  his  face  glowing 
with  the  gladness  of  his  tidings.  "You  shall  be  good 
and  beautiful,  lak  her,  but  you  shall  not  be  baptize 
by  missioner!  He  has  not  come!" 

A  few  minutes  later  Cummins  came  in.  One  of 
his  hands  was  torn  and  bleeding. 

"Those  Eskimo  dogs  are  demons!"  he  growled. 
"If  they  knew  how  to  stand  on  their  legs,  they'd  eat 
our  huskies  alive !  Will  you  help  me  with  this  ?" 

Jan  was  at  work  in  an  instant,  bandaging  the 
wounded  hand. 

"It  ees  not  deep,"  he  said ;  and  then,  without  look 
ing  up,  he  added :  "The  missioner  did  not  come." 

"No,"  said  Cummins  shortly.  "Neither  has  the 
mail.  He  is  with  that." 

He  did  not  notice  the  sudden  tremble  of  Jan's 
fingers,  nor  did  he  see  the  startled  look  that  shot  into 
the  boy's  down-turned  eyes.  Jan  finished  his  ban 
daging  without  betraying  his  emotion,  and  went 
back  with  Cummins  to  the  company's  store. 

The  next  morning,  two  Chippewayans  trailed  in 
with  a  team  of  mongrel  curs  from  the  south.  There- 

56 


DAYS   OF   TRIUMPH 

after  Cummins  found  but  little  time  to  devote  to 
Melisse.  The  snow  was  softening  rapidly,  and  the 
daily  increasing  warmth  of  the  sun  hastened  the 
movement  of  the  trappers.  Mukee's  people  from 
the  western  Barren  Lands  arrived  first,  bringing 
with  them  great  loads  of  musk-ox  and  caribou  skins, 
and  an  army  of  big- footed,  long-legged  Mackenzie 
hounds  that  pulled  like  horses  and  wailed  like 
whipped  puppies  when  the  huskies  and  Eskimo  dogs 
set  upon  them. 

From  east  and  west  and  south  all  trails  now  led 
to  the  post.  By  the  end  of  the  third  day  after  the  ar 
rival  of  the  company's  supplies,  a  babel  of  fighting, 
yelling,  ceaselessly  moving  discord  had  driven  forth 
the  peace  and  quiet  in  which  Cummins'  wife  had 
died.  The  fighting  and  discord  were  among  the  dogs, 
and  the  yelling  was  a  necessary  human  accompani 
ment.  Half  a  hundred  packs,  almost  as  wild  and  as 
savage  as  the  wolves  from  whom  half  of  them  pos 
sessed  a  strong  inheritance  of  blood,  were  thrown 
suddenly  into  warring  confusion. 

All  the  dogs  were  fighters  except  the  big,  soft- 
throated  Mackenzie  hounds,  with  the  slow  strength 

57 


THE   HONOR   OF    THE    BIG    SNOWS 

of  oxen  in  their  movements,  and  the  quarter-strained 
and  half -strained  mongrels  from  the  south;  and 
upon  these  unfortunates  the  others  preyed.  Packs  of 
fierce  Labrador  dogs,  never  vanquished  except  by 
death,  came  from  close  to  Hudson's  Bay.  Team  after 
team  of  the  little  yellow  and  gray  Eskimo  dogs,  as 
quick  with  their  fangs  as  were  their  black  and  swift- 
running  masters  with  their  hands  and  feet,  met  the 
much  larger  and  darker-colored  Malemutes  from  the 
Athabasca.  Enemies  of  all  these,  fighting,  snapping, 
and  snarling,  with  the  lust  of  killing  deep  born  in 
them  from  their  wolf  progenitors,  packs  of  fierce 
huskies  trailed  in  from  all  sides. 

There  was  no  cessation  in  the  battle  of  the  fangs. 
It  began  with  the  first  brute  arrivals.  It  continued 
from  dawn  through  the  day,  and  around  the  camp- 
fires  at  night.  There  was  never  an  end  to  the  strife 
between  the  dogs,  and  between  the  men  and  the  dogs. 
The  snow  was  stained  and  trailed  with  blood,  and 
the  scent  of  it  added  greater  fierceness  to  the  wolf- 
breeds.  Half  a  dozen  battles  were  fought  to  the 
death  each  day  and  night.  Those  that  died  were 
chiefly  the  south-bred  curs — mixtures  of  mastiff, 


DAYS    OF    TRIUMPH 

Great  Dane,  and  sheep-dogs — and  the  fatally  slow 
Mackenzie  hounds. 

rVom  its  towering  height  the  sentinel  spruce 
frowned  down  upon  the  savage  life  that  had  come 
to  outrage  the  grave  it  guarded.  Yet  beyond  all  this 
discord  and  bloody  strife  there  was  a  great,  throb 
bing  human  happiness — a  beating  of  honest  hearts 
filled  to  overflowing  with  the  joys  of  the  moment,  a 
welding  of  new  friendships,  a  renewal  of  old  ones, 
a  closer  union  of  the  brotherhood  that  holds  together 
all  things  under  the  cold  gray  of  the  northern  skies. 

There  were  no  bickerings  among  the  hunters,  no 
anger  of  man  against  man  in  the  fierce  voices  that 
emphasized  the  slashing  cuts  of  the  caribou-whips. 
If  the  fangs  of  a  Hudson's  Bay  husky  let  out  the 
life-blood  from  the  soft  throat  of  a  Mackenzie 
hound,  it  was  a  matter  of  the  dogs,  and  not  of  their 
owners.  They  did  not  quarrel. 

One  day  a  fierce  Eskimo  pack  cornered  a  giant 
husky  under  the  big  spruce,  and  slew  him.  When 
Cummins  came  from  the  company's  store  in  the  aft 
ernoon,  he  saw  a  number  of  men,  with  bared  heads, 
working  about  the  grave.  He  drew  near  enough  to 

59 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

see  that  they  were  building  around  it  a  barricade  of 
saplings;  and  his  breath  choked  him  as  he  turned  to 
the  cabin  and  Melisse.  He  noticed,  too,  that  no  fires 
were  built  near  the  spot  consecrated  to  the  memory 
of  the  dead  woman;  and  to  his  cabin  the  paths  in 
the  snow  became  deeper  and  wider  where  trod  the 
wild  forest  men  who  came  to  look  upon  the  little 
Melisse. 

These  were  days  of  unprecedented  prosperity  and 
triumph  for  the  baby,  as  they  were  for  the  company. 
The  cabin  was  half  filled  with  strange  things,  for  all 
who  came  gave  something  to  Melisse.  There  were 
polar  bears'  teeth,  brought  down  by  the  little  black 
men  who  in  turn  had  got  them  from  the  coast  peo 
ple;  strange  gods  carved  from  wood;  bits  of  fur, 
bushy  fox  tails,  lynx  paws,  dried  fruits,  candy  bought 
at  fabulous  prices  in  the  store,  and  musk — always 
and  incessantly  musk — from  Mukee's  people  of  the 
west  barrens. 

To  Jan  this  homage  to  Melisse  was  more  than 
gratifying.  It  formed  a  bond  between  him  and  Cum 
mins'  people.  His  heart  went  out  to  them,  and  he 
went  more  freely  among  them,  and  made  friends. 

60 


CHAPTER  VIT 

THE    CARIBOU    CARNIVAL 

JAN  had  not  played  upon  his  violin  since  the  com 
ing  of  Jean  de  Gravois;  but  one  evening  he 
tuned  his  strings,  and  said  to  Melisse : 

'They  have  been  good  to  you,  my  Melisse.  I  will 
give  them  ze  museek  of  ze  violon" 

It  was  the  big  night  at  the  post — the  night  that  is 
known  from  Athabasca  to  Hudson's  Bay  as  the  night 
of  the  caribou  roast.  A  week  had  passed,  and  there 
were  no  more  furs  to  be  disposed  of.  In  the  com 
pany's  ledger  each  man  had  received  his  credit,  and 
in  the  company's  store  the  furs  were  piled  high  and 
safe.  Three  caribou  had  been  killed  by  Per-ee  and 
his  hunters ;  and  on  this  night,  when  Jan  took  down 
his  violin  from  its  peg  on  the  wall,  a  huge  fire  blazed 
in  the  open,  and  on  spits  six  inches  in  diameter  the 
caribou  were  roasting. 

The  air  was  filled  with  the  sound  and  odor  of  the 
61 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

carnival.  Above  the  fighting  and  snarling  of  dogs, 
the  forest  people  lifted  their  voices  in  wild  celebra 
tion,  forgetting,  in  this  one  holiday  of  the  year,  the 
silence  that  they  would  carry  back  into  the  solitudes 
with  them.  Numbers  gave  them  courage  of  voice, 
and  in  its  manifestation  there  was  the  savagery  of 
the  forests  that  hemmed  them  in.  Shrill  voices  rose 
m  meaningless  cries  above  the  roaring  of  the  fire. 
Caribou  whips  snapped  fiercely.  Chippewayans, 
Crees,  Eskimos,  and  breeds  crowded  in  the  red  glare. 
The  factor's  men  shouted  and  sang  like  mad,  for  this 
was  the  company's  annual  "good  time" — the  show 
that  would  lure  many  of  these  same  men  back  again 
at  the  end  of  another  trapping  season. 

Huge  boxes  of  white  bread  were  placed  near  to 
the  fire.  A  tub  of  real  butter,  brought  five  thousand 
miles  from  across  the  sea  for  the  occasion,  was  set 
on  a  gun-case  thrown  where  the  heat  played  upon  it 
in  yellow  glory.  In  a  giant  copper  kettle,  over  a 
smaller  fire,  bubbled  and  steamed  half  a  barrel  of 
coffee. 

The  richness  of  the  odors  that  drifted  in  the  air 
set  the  dogs  gathering  upon  their  haunches  beyond 

62 


THE   CARIBOU  CARNIVAL 

the  waiting  circle  of  masters,  their  lips  dripping, 
their  fangs  snapping  in  an  eagerness  that  was  not 
for  the  flesh  of  battle.  And  above  it  all  there 
gleamed  down  a  billion  stars  from  out  of  the  skies, 
the  aurora  flung  its  banners  through  the  pale  night, 
and  softly  the  smoke  rose  straight  up  and  +hen 
floated  into  the  North,  carried  there  by  the  gentle 
breath  that  spring  was  luring  from  out  of  the  South. 

Jan  picked  his  way  through  the  cordon  of  dogs 
and  the  inner  circle  of  men  until  he  stood  with 
the  firelight  flashing  in  his  glossy  hair  and  black 
eyes,  and  there,  seated  upon  the  edge  of  one  of  the 
bread-boxes,  he  began  to  play. 

It  was  not  the  low,  sweet  music  of  Cummins  and 
the  little  Melisse  that  he  played  now,  but  a  wild, 
wailing  song  that  he  had  found  in  the  autumn  winds. 
It  burst  above  the  crackling  fire  and  the  tumult  of 
man  and  dog  in  a  weird  and  savage  beauty  that 
hushed  all  sound;  and  life  about  him  became  like 
life  struck  suddenly  dead,  With  his  head  bowed 
Jan  saw  nothing — saw  nothing  of  the  wonder  in  th^ 
faces  of  the  half -cringing  little  black  men  who  were 
-squatted  in  a  group  a  dozen  feet  away,  nothing  of 

63 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

the  staring  amazement  in  the  eyes  that  were  looking 
upon  this  miracle  he  was  performing.  He  knew 
only  that  about  him  there  was  a  deep  hush,  and  after 
a  while  his  violin  sang  a  lower  song,  and  sweeter; 
and  still  softer  it  became,  and  more  sweet,  until  he 
was  playing  that  which  he  loved  most  of  all — the 
music  that  had  filled  the  little  cabin  when  Cum 
mins'  wife  died. 

As  he  continued  to  play  there  came  an  interrup 
tion  to  the  silence — a  low  refrain  that  was  almost 
like  that  of  the  moaning  wind.  It  grew  beyond  the 
tense  circle  of  men,  until  a  song  of  infinite  sadness 
rose  from  the  throats  of  a  hundred  dogs  in  response 
to  Jan  Thoreau's  violin.  To  Jan,  it  was  like  the 
song  of  life.  The  unending  loneliness  and  grief  of 
it  stirred  him  to  the  quick  of  his  soul,  and  uncon 
sciously  his  voice  rose  and  fell  softly  with  the  wail 
ing  of  the  brute  chorus.  But  to  the  others  it  was  a 
thing  that  rose  portentous  above  their  understand 
ing,  a  miracle  of  mystery  that  smote  them  with  awe 
even  as  they  surrendered  themselves  to  the  wonder 
ful  sweetness  of  the  music. 

Cummins  saw  the  change  in  his  people,  and  un- 
64  * 


THE   CARIBOU  CARNIVAL 

derstood  what  it  meant.  He  saw  the  surrounding 
cordon  become  thinner  as  man  crushed  closer  to 
man,  and  he  saw  strained  faces  turned  from  the 
player  to  where  the  dogs  sat  full-throated  upon  their 
haunches,  with  their  heads  pointed  straight  to  the 
stars  in  the  sky. 

Suddenly  he  burst  into  a  volume  of  wild  song,  and 
made  his  way  through  the  crouching  Eskimos  to 
Jan. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  play  no  more  of  that !" 
he  cried  in  the  boy's  ear.  "Play  something  fast !" 

Jan  lifted  his  head  as  if  from  a  dream.  In  an  in 
stant  he  perceived  the  strange  effect  of  his  music, 
and  his  bow  raced  across  the  strings  of  his  violin  in 
a  rhythm  swift  and  buoyant,  his  voice  rising  shrill 
and  clear  in  words  familiar  to  them  all : 

"Oh,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo, 
He  roas'  on  high, 
Jes'  under  ze  sky, 
Ze  beeg  white  cariboo-oo-oo !" 

With  a  yell  Cummins  joined  in,  waving  his  arms 
and  leaping  in  the  firelight.  The  spell  was  broken. 

65 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Williams  and  Mukee  and  the  rest  of  the  company's 
men  burst  forth  in  song ;  Jan's  violin  leaped  in  cre- 
scendos  of  stirring  sound;  and  where  before  there 
had  been  a  silent  circle  of  awestruck  men  there  was 
now  a  yelling  din  of  voices. 

The  dogs  lowered  their  heads  again,  and  licked 
their  chops  at  the  odors  in  the  air.  With  a  yell 
Mukee  and  three  Crees  dashed  toward  the  fire,  long- 
hooked  poles  in  their  hands ;  and  as  the  caribou  car 
casses  were  turned  upon  their  huge  spits,  and  their 
dripping  fat  fell  sizzling  into  the  flames,  the  wild 
chorus  of  men  and  dogs  and  Jan's  violin  rose  higher, 
until  Cummins'  great  voice  became  only  a  whisper 
in  the  tumult. 

The  third  caribou  had  been  twice  turned  upon  its 
spit,  and  Mukee  and  his  Crees  paused  in  waiting 
silence,  their  hooked  poles  gripping  the  long  bar  that 
rested  horizontally  across  the  arms  of  two  stout 
posts  driven  into  the  earth  close  to  the  fire.  At  this 
signal  there  was  a  final  outburst  from  the  waiting 
horde,  and  then  a  momentary  silence  fell  as  Cum 
mins  sprang  upon  one  of  the  bread-boxes  and  waved 
his  arms  frantically  above  his  head. 

66 


THE    CARIBOU  CARNIVAL 

"Now!"  he  shouted.  "Now!  'Ze  cariboo-oo- 
oo—'" 

With  eyes  flashing  with  excitement,  Jan  stood  be 
fore  Cummins,  and  his  violin  shrieked  out  the  wild 
tune  to  a  still  wilder  response  of  untamed  voices. 

"Now !"  yelled  Cummins  again. 

The  wilderness  song,  that  was  known  from  Atha 
basca  to  Hudson's  Bay,  burst  forth  in  a  savage  en 
thusiasm  that  reached  to  the  skies : 

"Oh,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo, 
He  roas'  on  high, 
Jes'  under  ze  sky, 
Ze  beeg  white  cariboo-oo-oo!" 

Cummins  drew  his  revolver  and  blazed  fiercely 
into  the  air. 

"Now!"  he  shrieked. 

"Oh,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo,  ze  cariboo-oo-oo, 

He  brown  'n'  juice  'n'  sweet ! 
Ze  cariboo-oo-oo,  he  ver'  polite — 
He  roas'  on  high, 
Jes'  under  ze  sky, 
He  ready  now  to  come  'n'  eat!" 
6.7 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

With  yells  that  rose  above  the  last  words  of  th^ 
song,  Mukee  and  his  Crees  tugged  at  their  poles,  and 
the  roasted  caribou  fell  upon  the  snow.  Jan  drew 
back,  and  with  his  violin  hugged  under  one  arm, 
watched  the  wild  revelers  as,  with  bared  knives 
flashing  in  the  firelight,  they  crowded  to  the  feast. 
Williams,  the  factor,  who  was  puffing  from  his  vocal 
exertions,  joined  him. 

"Looks  like  a  fight,  doesn't  it,  Jan?  Once  I  saw 
a  fight  at  a  caribou  roast." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Jan,  who  had  not  taken  his  eyes 
from  the  jostling  crowd. 

"It  was  far  to  the  west  and  north,"  continued 
Williams ;  "beyond  the  Great  Slave  country." 

"Far  beyond,"  said  Jan,  lifting  his  eyes  quietly. 
"It  was  ver'  near  to  ze  Great  Bear." 

The  factor  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"You  saw  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

But  Jan  turned  away,  as  if  he  had  heard  nothing, 
and  passed  beyond  the  packs  of  waiting  dogs  to  re 
store  his  precious  violin  to  its  peg  on  the  cabin  wall. 
The  factor's  words  had  stirred  deep  memories  with 
in  him,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  to 

68 


THE   CARIBOU  CARNIVAL 

the  post  he  spoke  no  word  to  Melisse  when  he  found 
her  wakeful  and  friendly  in  her  cot. 

Neither  was  it  the  old  Jan  Thoreau  who  returned 
to  the  excitement  about  the  great  fire.  With  his 
long  hunting-knife  flashing  above  his  head,  he 
plunged  into  the  throng  around  the  caribou,  crowd 
ing  and  jostling  with  the  others,  his  voice  rising  in 
shrill  cries  as  he  forced  himself  through  to  the  edge 
of  the  fire.  Cummins  was  there,  kneeling  with 
turned-up  sleeves  and  greasy  hands  beside  the  huge 
roast,  and  when  he  saw  Jan  he  stared  at  him  in 
wonder.  There  was  neither  laughter  nor  song  in 
Jan  Thoreau's  voice.  It  was  vibrant  with  a  strange 
savageness  which  was  more  savage  than  the  wildest 
yells  of  the  half-breed  Crees,  and  his  great  eyes 
burned  fiercely  as  they  rested  for  an  instant  upon 
Cummins'  face. 

Close  behind  Cummins  stood  Williams.  Jan  saw 
him,  and  his  knife  dropped  to  his  side.  Then,  so 
quickly  that  the  startled  factor  drew  back  a  step, 
Jan  sprang  to  him. 

"Ze  fight  at  ze  Great  Bear!"  he  cried  in  swift  ea 
gerness.  "For  who  you  fight  at  ze  Great  Bear  ?" 

69 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

The  factor  was  silent,  and  the  muscles  of  his  arms 
grew  like  steel  as  he  saw  the  madness  in  Jan's  face. 
,  Suddenly  he  reached  out  and  gripped  the  boy's 
wrists.  Jan  made  no  effort  to  evade  the  clutch. 

"For  who  you  fight?"  he  cried  again.  "For  who 
you  fight  at  ze  Great  Bear  ?" 

"We  tried  to  kill  a  man,  but  he  got  away,"  said 
Williams,  speaking  so  low  that  only  Jan  heard.  "He 
was — "  The  factor  stopped. 

"Ze  missioner!"  panted  Jan. 

The  wild  light  went  out  of  his  eyes  as  he  stared 
up  at  Williams,  and  the  softer  glow  which  came  into 
them  loosened  at  once  the  factor's  grip  on  the  boy's 
wrists. 

"Yes,  the  missioner!" 

Jan  drew  back.  He  evaded  meeting  the  eyes  of 
Cummins  as  he  made  his  way  among  the  men.  There 
was  a  new  burst  of  song  as  Mukee  and  his  Crees 
pulled  down  a  second  caribou,  but  the  boy  paid  no 
attention  to  the  fresh  excitement.  He  thrust  his 
knife  into  its  sheath  and  ran — ran  swiftly  through 
the  packs  of  dogs  fighting  and  snarling  over  the 
scraps  that  had  been  thrown  to  them ;  past  Maballa, 

70 


THE   CARIBOU  CARNIVAL 

who  was  watching  the  savage  banquet  around  the 
big  fire,  and  into  the  little  cabin,  to  Melisse. 

Here  he  flung  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  for  the 
first  time  he  caught  the  baby  in  his  arms,  holding 
her  close  to  him,  and  rocking  her  to  and  fro,  as  he 
cried  out  sobbingly  the  words  which  she  did  not  un 
derstand. 

"An*  when  I  fin'  heem  an'  kill  heem,  I  will  come 
back  to  you,  my  angel  Melisse,"  he  whispered.  "And 
then  you  will  luf  Jan  Thoreau  for  letting  out  the 
blood  of  a  missioner!" 

He  put  her  back  into  the  little  bed,  kissed  her 
again,  took  down  his  violin  from  its  peg  in  the  wall, 
and  turned  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   FIGHT   AT   DAWN 

FOR  a  few  moments  Jan  stood  with  his  back  to 
Melisse  and  his  eyes  upon  the  carnival  about 
the  great  fire.  As  he  looked,  the  third  caribou  was 
pulled  down  from  its  spit,  and  the  multitude  of  dogs 
rushed  in  upon  the  abandoned  carcasses  of  the  other 
two. 

He  caught  his  breath  quickly  as  a  loud  shout  and 
the  wailing  yelp  of  a  hurt  dog  rose  for  an  instant 
above  all  other  sounds.  Only  one  thing  was  wanting 
to  complete  another  picture  in  his  brain — a  scene 
which  had  burned  itself  into  his  life  for  ever,  and 
which  he  strove  to  fight  back  as  he  stood  staring 
from  the  doorway.  He  half  expected  it  to  come — 
the  shrill  scream  of  a  boyish  voice,  an  instant's  sul 
len  quiet,  then  the  low-throated  thunder  of  impend 
ing  vengeance — and  the  fight ! 

With  marvelous  quickness  his  excited  mind  re- 
72 


THE   FIGHT   AT   DAWN 

constructed  the  scene  before  him  into  the  scene  that 
had  been.  He  heard  the  scream  again,  which  had 
been  his  voice;  saw,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  frenzied 
rush  of  men  and  the  flash  of  knives;  and  then,  from 
where  he  lay  trampled  and  bleeding  in  the  snow,  the 
long,  lean  team  of  swift  huskies  that  had  carried  in 
mad  flight  the  one  whose  life  those  knives  sought. 

Williams  had  been  there;  he  had  seen  the  fight — 
his  knife  had  flashed  with  the  others  in  its  demand 
for  life.  And  yet  he — Jan  Thoreau — had  not  been 
recognized  by  the  factor  out  there  beside  the  caribou 
roast ! 

He  hurried  toward  the  fire.  Half-way  across  the 
open  he  stopped.  From  out  of  the  forest  opposite 
Cummins'  cabin  there  trailed  slowly  a  team  of  dogs. 
In  the  shadows  of  the  spruce,  hidden  from  the  revel 
ers,  the  team  halted.  Jan  heard  the  low  voices  of 
men,  and  a  figure  detached  itself  from  the  gloom, 
walking  slowly  and  in  the  manner  of  one  near  to 
exhaustion  in  the  direction  of  the  carnival. 

It  was  a  new  team.  It  had  come  from  the  trails  to 
the  east,  and  Jan's  heart  gave  a  sudden  jump  as  he 
thought  of  the  missionary  who  was  expected  with 

73 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

the  overdue  mail.  At  first  he  had  a  mind  to  intercept 
the  figure  laboring  across  the  open,  but  without  ap 
parent  reason  he  changed  his  course  and  approached 
the  sledge. 

As  he  came  nearer,  he  observed  a  second  figure, 
which  rose  from  behind  the  dogs  and  advanced  to 
meet  him.  A  dozen  paces  ahead  of  the  team  it 
stopped  and  waited. 

"Our  dogs  are  so  near  exhaustion  that  we're  afraid 
to  take  them  any  nearer,"  said  a  voice.  "They'd  die 
like  puppies  under  those  packs !" 

The  voice  thrilled  Jan.  He  advanced  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  so  that  he  could  see  the  stranger. 

"You  come  from  Churchill  ?"  he  asked. 

His  words  were  hardly  a  question.  They  were 
more  of  an  excuse  for  him  to  draw  nearer,  and  he 
turned  a  little,  so  that  for  an  instant  the  glowing  fire 
flashed  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  we  started  from  the  Etawney  just  a  week 
ago  to-day." 

Jan  had  come  very  near.  The  stranger  interrupted 
himself  to  stare  into  the  thin,  fierce  face  that  had 
grown  like  a  white  cameo  almost  within  reach  of 

74 


THE   FIGHT    AT   DAWN 

him.  With  a  startled  cry,  he  drew  a  step  back,  and 
Jan's  violin  dropped  to  the  snow. 

For  no  longer  than  a  breath  there  was  silence.  The 
man  wormed  himself  back  into  the  shadows  inch  by 
inch,  followed  by  the  white  face  of  the  boy.  Then 
there  came  shrilly  from  Jan's  lips  the  mad  shrieking 
of  a  name,  and  his  knife  flashed  as  he  leaped  at  the 
other's  breast. 

The  stranger  was  quicker  than  he.  With  a  sud 
den  movement  he  cleared  himself  of  the  blow ;  and 
as  Jan's  arm  went  past  him,  the  point  of  the  knife 
ripping  his  coat-sleeve,  he  shot  out  a  powerful  fist 
and  sent  the  boy  reeling  to  the  ground. 

Stunned  and  bleeding,  Jan  dragged  himself  to  his 
knees.  He  saw  the  dogs  turning,  heard  a  low  voice 
urging  them  to  the  trail,  and  saw  the  sledge  disappear 
into  the  forest.  He  staggered  from  his  knees  to  his 
feet,  and  stood  swaying  in  his  weakness.  Then  he 
followed. 

He  forgot  that  he  was  leaving  his  knife  in  the 
snow,  forgot  that  back  there  about  the  fire  there 
were  other  dogs  and  other  men.  He  only  knew  that 
once  before  he  had  seen  a  sledge  slip  off  into  the 

75 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

wilderness;  that  its  going  had  left  him  a  life  of 
hatred  and  bitterness  and  desire  for  vengeance ;  and 
that  this  was  the  same  man  who  was  slipping  away 
from  him  in  the  same  way  again. 

He  followed,  sickened  by  the  blow,  but  gaining 
strength  as  he  pursued.  Ahead  of  him  he  could 
hear  the  sound  of  the  toboggan  and  the  cautious 
lashing  of  a  whip  over  the  backs  of  the  tired  huskies. 
The  sounds  filled  him  with  fierce  strength.  He  wiped 
away  the  warm  trickle  of  blood  that  ran  over  his 
cheek,  and  began  to  run,  slowly  at  first,  swinging 
in  the  easy  wolf -lope  of  the  forest  runner,  with  his 
elbows  close  to  his  sides. 

At  that  pace  he  could  have  followed  for  hours, 
losing  when,  the  pack  took  a  spurt,  gaining  when 
they  lagged,  an  insistent  Nemesis  just  behind  when 
the  weighted  dogs  lay  down  in  their  traces.  But 
there  was  neither  the  coolness  of  Mukee  nor  the 
cleverness  of  Jean  de  Gravois  in  the  manner  of  Jan's 
running.  When  he  heard  the  cracking  of  the  whip 
growing  fainter,  he  dropped  his  arms  straight  to  his 
sides  and  ran  more  swiftly,  his  brain  reeling  with  the 
madness  of  his  desire  to  reach  the  sledge — to  drag 


THE    FIGHT    AT    DAWN 

from  it  the  man  who  had  struck  him,  to  choke  life 
from  the  face  that  haunted  that  mental  picture  of  his, 
grinning  at  him  and  gloating  always  from  the 
shadow  world,  just  beyond  the  pale,  sweet  loveli 
ness  of  the  woman  who  lived  in  it. 

That  picture  came  to  him  now  as  he  ran,  more  and 
more  vividly,  and  from  out  of  it  the  woman  urged 
him  on  to  the  vengeance  which  she  demanded  of  him, 
her  great  eyes  glowing  like  fire,  her  beautiful  face 
torn  with  the  agony  which  he  had  last  seen  in  it  in 
life. 

To  Jan  Thoreau  there  seemed  almost  to  come 
from  that  face  a  living  voice,  crying  to  him  its  prayer 
for  retribution,  pleading  with  him  to  fasten  his 
lithe,  brown  hands  about  the  throat  of  the  monster 
upon  the  sledge  ahead,  and  choke  from  it  all  life. 
It  drove  reason  from  him,  leaving  him  with  the  one 
thought  that  the  monster  was  almost  within  reach; 
and  he  replied  to  the  prayer  with  the  breath  that 
came  in  moaning  exhaustion  from  between  his  lips. 

He  did  not  feel  the  soft,  sun-packed  snow  under 
the  beat  of  his  feet.  He  received  the  lash  of  low- 
hanging  bushes  without  experiencing  the  sensation 

77 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

of  their  sting.  Only  he  knew  that  he  wanted  air-—* 
more  and  more  air;  and  to  get  it  he  ran  with  open 
mouth,  struggling  and  gasping  for  it,  and  yet  not 
knowing  that  Jean  de  Gravois  would  have  called 
him  a  fool  for  the  manner  in  which  he  sought  it. 

He  heard  more  and  more  faintly  the  run  of  the 
sledge.  Then  he  heard  it  no  longer,  and  even  the 
cracking  of  the  whip  died  away.  His  heart  swelled 
in  a  final  bursting  effort,  and  he  plunged  on,  until 
at  last  his  legs  crumpled  under  him  and  he  pitched 
face  downward  in  the  snow,  like  a  thing  stung  by 
sudden  death. 

It  was  then,  with  his  scratched  and  bleeding  face 
lying  in  the  snow,  that  reason  began  to  return  to 
him.  After  a  little  while  he  dragged  himself  weakly 
to  his  knees,  still  panting  from  the  mad  effort  he 
had  made  to  overtake  the  sledge.  From  a  great  dis 
tance  he  heard  faintly  the  noise  of  shouting,  the 
whispering  echo  of  half  a  hundred  voices,  and  he 
knew  that  the  sound  came  from  the  revelers  at  the 
post.  It  was  proof  to  him  that  there  had  been  no 
interruption  to  the  carnival,  and  that  the  scene  at  the 
edge  of  the  forest  had  been  witnessed  by  none. 

78 


THE   FIGHT    AT   DAWN 

Quickly  his  mental  faculties  readjusted  them 
selves.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  for  a  few  moments 
stood  hesitatingly.  He  had  no  weapon;  but  as  his 
hand  rested  upon  the  empty  knife-sheath  at  his  belt, 
there  came  to  him  a  thought  of  the  way  in  which 
Mukee  had  avenged  Cummins'  wife,  and  he  turned 
again  upon  the  trail.  He  no  longer  touched  the  low- 
hanging  bushes.  He  was  no  more  than  a  shadow, 
appearing  and  disappearing  without  warning,  trail 
ing  as  the  white  ermine  follows  its  prey,  noiseless, 
alert,  his  body  responding  sinuously  and  without 
apparent  effort  to  the  working  commands  of  his 
brain. 

Where  the  forest  broke  into  an  open,  lighted  by 
the  stars,  he  found  blood  in  the  footprints  of  the 
leading  dog.  Half-way  across  the  open,  he  saw 
where  the  leader  had  swung  out  from  the  trail  and 
the  others  of  the  pack  had  crowded  about  him,  to 
be  urged  on  by  the  lashings  of  the  man's  whip. 
Other  signs  of  the  pack's  growing  exhaustion  fol 
lowed  close. 

The  man  now  traveled  beside  the  sledge  where  the 
trail  was  rough,  and  rode  where  it  was  smooth  and 

79 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

hard.  The  deep  imprints  of  his  heeled  boots  in  the 
soft  snow  showed  that  he  ran  for  only  a  short  dis 
tance  at  a  time — a  hundred  yards  or  less — and  that 
after  each  running  spell  he  brought  the  pack  to  a 
walk.  He  was  heavy  and  lacked  endurance,  and  this 
discovery  brought  a  low  cry  of  exultation  to  Jan's 
lips. 

He  fell  into  a  dog-trot.  Mile  after  mile  dropped 
behind  him;  other  miles  were  ahead  of  him,  an 
endless  wilderness  of  miles,  and  through  them  the 
tired  pack  persisted,  keeping  always  beyond  sound 
and  vision. 

The  stars  began  fading  out  of  the  skies.  The 
shadows  of  the  forest  grew  deeper  and  blacker,  and 
where  the  aurora  had  lightened  the  heavens  there 
crept  the  somber  gray  film  that  preceded  dawn  by 
three  hours. 

Jan  followed  more  and  more  slowly.  There  was 
hard-breathing  effort  now  in  his  running — effort 
that  caused  him  physical  pain  and  discomfort.  His 
feet  stumbled  occasionally  in  the  snow;  his  legs, 
from  thigh  to  knee,  began  to  ache  with  the  gnawing 
torment  that  centers  in  the  marrowbone;  and  with 

80 


THE   FIGHT   AT   DAWN 

this  beginning  of  the  "runner's  cramp"  he  was  filled 
with  a  new  and  poignant  terror. 

Would  the  dogs  beat  him  out  ?  Sloughing  in  the 
trail,  bleeding  at  every  foot,  would  they  still  drag 
their  burden  beyond  the  reach  of  his  vengeance? 
The  fear  fastened  itself  upon  him,  urging  him  to 
greater  effort,  and  he  called  upon  the  last  of  his 
strength  in  a  spurt  that  carried  him  to  where  the 
thick  spruce  gave  place  to  thin  bush,  and  the  bush  to 
the  barren  and  rocky  side  of  a  huge  ridge,  up  which 
the  trail  climbed  strong  and  well  defined.  For  a  few 
paces  he  followed  it,  then  slipped  and  rolled  back  as 
the  fatal  paralysis  deadened  all  power  of  movement 
in  his  limbs.  He  lay  where  he  fell,  moaning  out  his 
grief  with  his  wide-staring  eyes  turned  straight  up 
into  the  cold  gray  of  the  starless  sky. 

For  a  long  time  he  was  motionless.  From  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  where  the  trail  cut  over  the  mountain, 
he  looked  like  a  bit  of  fire-blackened  wood  half 
buried  in  the  snow.  Half-way  up  the  ridge  a  wolf, 
slinking  hungrily,  sniffed  first  up  the  trail  and  then 
down,  and  broke  the  stillness  of  the  gray  night-end 
with  a  mournful  howl.  It  did  not  stir  Jan  Thoreau. 

81 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Long  after  the  wolf  had  passed  on,  he  moved  a 
little,  twisting  himself  so  that  his  eyes  could  follow 
the  tracks  made  by  the  sledge  and  dogs.  When  he 
came  to  where  the  snow-covered  backbone  of  the 
ridge  cut  itself  in  faint  outline  against  the  desolate 
coldness  of  the  sky,  there  fell  from  him  the  first 
sound  of  returning  life.  Up  there  he  was  sure  that 
he  had  seen  something  move — an  object  which  at 
first  he  had  taken  for  a  bush,  and  which  he  knew  was 
not  the  wolf. 

He  watched  for  its  reappearance,  until  all  sorts 
of  gray  dawn  shadows  danced  before  his  eyes.  Then 
he  began  slowly  to  crawl  up  the  trail.  Some  of  the 
dull,  paralytic  ache  was  gone  from  his  limbs,  and  as 
he  worked  his  blood  began  to  warm  them  into  new 
strength,  until  he  stood  up  and  sniffed  like  an  animal 
in  the  wind  that  was  coming  over  the  ridge  from  the 
south. 

There  was  something  in  that  wind  that  thrilled 
him.  It  stung  his  nostrils  to  a  quick  sensing  of  the 
nearness  of  something  that  was  human.  He  smelled 
smoke.  In  it  there  was  the  pungent  odor  of  green 
balsam,  mixed  with  a  faint  perfume  of  pitch  pine; 

82 


THE    FIGHT    AT    DAWN 

and  because  the  odor  of  pitch  grew  stronger  as  he 
ascended,  he  knew  that  it  was  a  small  fire  that  was 
making  the  smoke,  with  none  of  the  fierce,  dry 
woods  to  burn  up  the  smell.  It  was  a  fire  hidden 
among  the  rocks,  a  tiny  fire,  over  which  the  fleeing 
missioner  was  cooking  his  breakfast. 

Jan  almost  moaned  aloud  in  his  gladness,  and  the 
old  mad  strength  returned  to  hi<3  body.  Near  the 
summit  of  the  ridge  he  picked  irp  a  club.  It  was  a 
short,  thick  club,  with  the  heavy  end  knotted  and 
twisted. 

Cautiously  he  lifted  his  face  over  the  rocks,  and 
looked  out  upon  a  plateau,  still  deep  in  snow,  swept 
bare  by  the  winter's  winds,  and  covered  with  rocks 
and  bushes.  His  face  was  so  white  that  at  a  little 
distance  it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  snow  hare. 
It  went  whiter  when,  a  few  yards  away,  he  saw  the 
fire,  the  man,  and  the  dogs. 

The  man  was  close  to  the  little  blaze,  his  broad 
shoulders  hunched  over,  steadying  a  small  pot  over 
the  flame.  Beyond  him  were  the  dogs  huddled  about 
the  sledge,  1  lanimate  as  death. 

Jan  drew  himself  over  the  rocks.    Once  he  had 

83 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

seen  a  big- footed  lynx  creep  upon  a  wide-awake  fox, 
and  like  that  lynx  he  crept  upon  the  man  beside  the 
fire.  One  of  the  tired  dogs  moved,  and  his  pointed 
nostrils  quivered  in  the  air.  Jan  lay  flat  in  the  snow. 
Then  the  dog's  muzzle  dropped  between  his  paws, 
and  the  boy  moved  on. 

Inch  by  inch  he  advanced.  The  inches  multiplied 
themselves  into  a  foot,  the  foot  lengthened  into 
yards,  and  still  the  man  remained  hunched  over  his 
simmering  pot. 

Jan  rose  gently  from  his  hands  and  knees  to  his 
feet,  a  furnace  of  madness  blazing  in  his  eyes.  The 
restless  dog  raised  his  head  again.  He  sniffed  dan 
ger — near,  menacing  danger — and  sprang  up  with  a 
snarling  cry  that  brought  the  man  over  the  fire  to 
quick  attention.  In  a  flash  Jan  took  the  last  leap, 
and  his  club  crashed  down  upon  the  missioner's  head. 
The  man  pitched  over  like  a  log,  and  with  a  shrill 
cry  the  boy  was  at  his  throat. 

"I  am  Jan  Thoreau!"  he  shrieked.  "I  am  Jan 
Thoreau — Jan  Thoreau — come  to  keel  you!"  He 
dropped  his  club,  and  was  upon  the  man's  chest,  his 
slender  fingers  tightening  like  steel  wire  about  the 


THE    FIGHT    AT    DAWN 

thick  throat  of  his  enemy.  "I  keel  you  slow — slow  !* 
he  cried,  as  the  missioner  struggled  weakly. 

The  great  thick  body  heaved  under  him,  and  he 
put  all  his  strength  into  his  hands.  Something 
struck  him  in  the  face.  Something  struck  him  again 
and  again,  but  he  felt  neither  the  pain  nor  the  force 
of  it,  and  his  voice  sobbed  out  his  triumph  as  he 
choked.  The  man's  hands  reached  up  and  tore  at 
his  hair;  but  Jan  saw  only  the  missioner's  mottled 
face  growing  more  mottled,  and  his  eyes  staring  in 
greater  agony  up  into  his  own. 

"I  am  Jan  Thoreau/'  he  panted  again  and  again. 
"I  am  Jan  Thoreau,  an'  I  keel  you — keel  you !" 

The  blood  poured  from  his  face.  It  blinded  him 
until  he  could  no  longer  see  the  one  from  which  he 
was  choking  life.  He  bent  down  his  head  to  escape 
the  blows.  The  man's  body  heaved  more  and  more  ; 
it  turned  until  he  was  half  under  it;  but  still  he 
hung  to  the  thick  throat,  as  the  weasel  hangs  in 
tenacious  death  to  the  jugular  of  its  prey. 

The  missioner's  weight  was  upon  him  in  crush 
ing  force  now.  His  huge  hands  struck  and  tore  at 
the  boy's  head  and  face,  and  then  they  had  fastened 

85 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

themselves  at  his  neck.  Jan  was  conscious  of  a  terri* 
ble  effort  to  take  in  breath,  but  he  was  not  conscious 
of  pain.  The  clutch  did  not  frighten  him.  It  did  not 
'make  him  loosen  his  grip.  His  fingers  dug  deeper. 
He  strove  to  cry  out  still  his  words  of  triumph;  but 
he  could  make  no  sound,  except  a  gasping  like  that 
which  came  from  between  the  gaping  jaws  of  the 
man  whose  life  his  body  and  soul  were  fighting  to 
smother. 

There  was  death  in  each  of  the  two  grips;  but  the 
man's  was  the  stronger,  and  his  neck  was  larger  and 
tougher,  so  that  after, a  time  he  staggered  to  his 
knees  and  then  to  his  feet,  while  Jan  lay  upon  his 
back,  his  face  and  hair  red  with  blood,  his  eyes  wide 
open  and  with  a  lifeless  glare  in  them.  The  mis- 
sioner  looked  down  upon  his  victim  in  horror.  As 
the  life  that  had  nearly  ebbed  out  of  him  poured  back 
into  his  body,  he  staggered  among  the  dogs,  fastened 
them  to  the  sledge,  and  urged  them  down  the  moun 
tain  into  the  plain.  There  was  soon  no  sound  of  the 
sledge. 

From  a  bush  a  dozen  yards  away  a  wondering 
moose-bird  had  watched  the  terrible  struggle.  Now 

86 


THE    FIGHT    AT   DAWN 

he  hopped  boldly  upon  Jan's  motionless  body,  and 
perked  his  head  inquisitively  as  he  examined  the 
strange  face,  covered  with  blood  and  twisted  in 
torture. 

The  gray  film  of  dawn  dissolved  itself  into  the 
white  beginning  of  day.  Far  to  the  south,  a  bit  of 
the  red  sunrise  was  creeping  into  the  northern  world. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JEAN   AND   JAN 

HALF  a  mile  down  the  ridge,  where  it  sloped 
up  gradually  from  the  forests  and  swamps  of 
the  plain,  a  team  of  powerful  Malemutes  were  run 
ning  at  the  head  of  a  toboggan.  On  the  sledge  was 
a  young  half-Cree  woman.  Now  beside  the  sledge, 
now  at  the  lead  of  the  dogs,  cracking  his  whip  and 
shouting  joyously,  ran  Jean  de  Gravois. 

"Is  it  not  beautiful,  my  lowaka?"  he  cried  for 
the  hundredth  time,  in  Cree,  leaping  over  a  three- 
foot  boulder  in  his  boundless  enthusiasm.  "Is  this 
not  the  glorious  world,  with  the  sun  just  rising  off 
there,  and  spring  only  a  few  days  away?  It  is  not 
like  the  cold  chills  at  Churchill,  which  come  up  with 
the  icebergs  and  stay  there  all  summer!  What  do 
you  think  of  your  Jean  de  Gravois  and  his  country 
now?" 

88 


JEAN   AND   JAN 

Jean  was  bringing  back  with  him  a  splendid  young 
woman,  with  big,  lustrous  eyes,  and  hair  that  shone 
with  the  gloss  of  a  raven's  wing  in  the  sun.  She 
laughed  at  him  proudly  as  he  danced  and  leaped  be 
side  her,  replying  softly  in  Cree,  which  is  the  most 
beautiful  language  in  the  world,  to  everything  that 
he  said. 

Jean  leaped  and  ran,  cracked  his  caribou  whip,  and 
shouted  and  sang  until  he  was  panting  and  red  in 
the  face.  Just  as  lowaka  had  called  upon  him  to 
stop  and  get  a  second  wind,  the  Malemutes  dropped 
back  upon  their  haunches  where  Jan  Thoreau  lay, 
twisted  and  bleeding,  in  the  snow. 

"What  is  this?"  cried  Jean. 

He  caught  Jan's  limp  head  and  shoulders  up  in 
his  arms,  and  called  shrilly  to  lowaka,  who  was  dis 
entangling  herself  from  the  thick  furs  in  which  he 
had  wrapped  her. 

"It  is  the  fiddler  I  told  you  about,  who  lives  with 
Williams  at  Post  Lac  Bain !"  he  shouted  excitedly  in 
Cree.  "He  has  been  murdered !  He  has  been  choked 
to  death,  and  torn  to  pieces  in  the  face,  as  if  by  an 
animal !"  Jean's  eyes  roved  about  as  lowaka  kneeled 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

beside  him.  "What  a  fight!"  he  gasped.  "See  the 
footprints — a  big  man  and  a  small  boy,  and  the  mur 
derer  has  gone  on  a  sledge!" 

"He  is  warm,"  said  lowaka.  "It  may  be  that  he  is 
not  dead." 

Jean  de  Gravois  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  little  black 
eyes  flashing  with  a  dangerous  fire.  In  a  single  leap 
he  was  at  the  side  of  the  sledge,  throwing  off  the 
furs  and  bundles  and  all  other  objects  except  his 
rifle. 

"He  is  dead,  lowaka.  Look  at  the  purple  and 
black  in  his  face.  It  is  Jean  de  Gravois  who  will 
catch  the  murderer,  and  you  will  stay  here  and  make 
yourself  a  camp.  Hi-o-o-o-o!"  he  shouted  to  the 
Malemutes. 

The  team  twisted  sinuously  and  swiftly  in  the 
trail  as  he  sped  over  the  edge  of  the  mountain.  Upon 
the  plain  below  he  knelt  upon  the  toboggan,  with  his 
rifle  in  front  of  him;  and  at  his  low,  hissing  com 
mands,  which  reached  no  farther  than  the  dogs'  ears, 
the  team  stretched  their  long  bodies  in  pursuit  of 
the  missioner  and  his  huskies. 

Jean  knew  that  whoever  was  ahead  of  him  was 
90 


JEAN    AND   JAN 

not  far  away,  and.  he  laughed  and  hunched  his  shoul 
ders  when  he  saw  that  his  magnificent  Malemutes 
were  making  three  times  the  speed  of  the  huskies. 
It  was  a  short  chase.  It  led  across  the  narrow  plain 
and  into  a  dense  tangle  of  swamp,  where  the  huskies 
had  picked  their  way  in  aimless  wandering  until  they 
came  out  in  thick  balsam  and  Banksian  pine.  Half 
a  mile  farther  on,  and  the  trail  broke  into  an  open 
which  led  down  to  the  smooth  surface  of  a  lake, 
and  two-thirds  across  the  lake  was  the  fleeing  mis- 
sioner. 

The  Malemute  leader  flung  open  his  jaws  in  a 
deep  baying  triumph,  and  with  a  savage  yell  Jean 
cracked  his  caribou  whip  over  his  back.  He  saw  the 
man  ahead  of  him  lean  over  the  end  of  his  sledge 
as  he  urged  his  dogs,  but  the  huskies  went  no  faster ; 
and  then  he  caught  the  glitter  of  something  that 
flashed  for  a  moment  in  the  sun. 

"Ah!"  said  Jean  softly,  as  a  bullet  sang  over  his 
head.  "He  fires  at  Jean  de  Gravois !"  He  dropped 
his  whip,  and  there  was  the  warm  glow  of  happiness 
in  his  little  dark  face  as  he  leveled  his  rifle  over  the 
backs  of  his  Malemutes.  "He  fires  at  Jean  de 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Gravois,  and  it  is  Jean  who  can  hamstring  a  caribou 
at  three  hundred  yards  on  the  run !" 

For  an  instant,  at  the  crack  of  his  rifle,  there  was 
no  movement  ahead ;  then  something  rolled  from  the 
sledge  and  lay  doubled  up  in  the  snow.  A  hundred 
yards  beyond  it,  the  huskies  stopped  in  a  rabble  and 
turned  to  look  at  the  approaching  strangers. 

Beside  it  Jean  stopped ;  and  when  he  saw  the  face 
that  stared  up  at  him,  he  clutched  his  thin  hands  in 
his  long  black  hair  and  cried  out,  in  shrill  amaze* 
ment  and  horror: 

"The  saints  in  Heaven,  it  is  the  missioner  from 
Churchill!" 

He  turned  the  man  over,  and  found  where  his 
bullet  had  entered  under  one  arm  and  come  out  from 
under  the  other.  There  was  no  spark  of  life  left. 
The  missioner  was  already  dead. 

"The  missioner  from  Churchill !"  he  gasped  again. 

He  looked  up  at  the  warm  sun,  and  kicked  the 
melting  snow  under  his  moccasined  feet. 

"It  will  thaw  very  soon,"  he  said  to  himself,  look 
ing  again  at  the  dead  man,  "and  then  he  will  go  into 
the  lake." 

92 


JEAN    AND   JAN 

He  headed  his  Malemutes  back  to  the  forest. 
Then  he  ran  out  and  cut  the  traces  of  the  exhausted 
huskies,  and  with  his  whip  scattered  them  in  free 
dom  over  the  ice. 

"Go  to  the  wolves !"  he  shouted  in  Cree.  "Hide 
yourselves  from  the  post,  or  Jean  de  Gravois  will 
cut  out  your  tongues  and  take  your  skins  off  alive !" 

When  he  came  back  to  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
Jean  found  lowaka  making  hot  coffee,  while  Jan 
was  bundled  up  in  furs  near  the  fire. 

"It  is  as  I  said,"  she  called.    "He  is  alive!" 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  return  of  Jean  de 
Gravois  to  the  post  was  even  more  dramatic  than  he 
had  schemed  it  to  be,  for  he  brought  back  with 
him  not  only  a  beautiful  wife  from  Churchill,  but 
also  the  half  dead  Jan  Thoreau  from  the  scene  of 
battle  on  the  mountain.  And  in  the  mystery  of  it 
all  he  reveled  for  two  days ;  for  Jean  de  Gravois  said 
not  a  word  about  the  dead  man  on  the  lake  beyond 
the  forest,  nor  did  the  huskies  come  back  into  their 
bondage  to  give  a  hint  of  the  missing  missionary. 


93 


CHAPTER  X 

RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

FROM  the  day  after  the  caribou  roast  the  fur- 
gatherers  began  scattering.  The  Eskimos  left 
the  next  morning.  On  the  second  day  Mukee's  peo 
ple  from  the  west  set  off  along  the  edge  of  the  bar 
rens.  Most  of  the  others  left  by  ones  and  twos  into 
the  wildernesses  to  the  south  and  east. 

Less  than  a  dozen  still  put  off  their  return  to  the 
late  spring  trapping,  and  among  these  were  Jean  de 
Gravois  and  his  wife.  Jean  waited  until  the  third 
day.  Then  he  went  to  see  Jan.  The  boy  was  bol 
stered  up  in  his  cot,  with  Cummins  balancing  the  lit 
tle  Melisse  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  when  he  came  in. 

For  a  time  Jean  sat  and  watched  them  in  silence ; 
then  he  made  a  sign  to  Cummins,  who  joined  him  at 
the  door. 

"I  am  going  the  Athabasca  way  to-day,"  he  said. 
94 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

?'I  wish  to  talk  with  the  boy  before  I  go.  I  have  a 
word  to  say  to  him  which  no  ears  should  hear  but 
his  own.  Will  it  be  right?" 

"Talk  to  him  as  long  as  you  like,"  said  Cummins, 
"but  don't  worry  him  about  the  missionary.  You'll 
not  get  a  word  from  him." 

Jan's  eyes  spoke  with  a  devotion  greater  than 
words  as  Jean  de  Gravois  came  and  sat  close  beside 
him.  He  knew  that  it  was  Jean  who  had  brought 
him  alive  into  the  post,  and  now  there  was  something 
in  the  suggestive  grimacing  of  the  Frenchman's  face, 
and  in  the  eagerness  with  which  he  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  as  if  he  was  not  quite  sure  but  that  the 
walls  held  ears,  that  caused  the  boy's  heart  to  beat 
a  little  faster  as  he  speculated  upon  what  Jean  was 
going  to  say. 

For  a  few  moments  Jean  looked  at  the  other 
steadily,  with  his  thin,  black  face  propped  in  his 
hands  and  a  curious  smile  on  his  lips.  He  twisted 
his  face  into  a  dozen  expressions  of  a  language  as 
voluble  as  that  of  his  tongue,  hunched  his  shoulders 
up  to  his  ears  as  he  grinned  at  Jan,  and  chuckled 
between  his  grimaces. 

95 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

"Ah,  it  was  wan  be-e-a-u-tiful  fight!"  he  said 
softly.  "You  are  a  brave  boy,  Jan  Thoreau !" 

"You  did  not  see  it?"  asked  Jan. 

Unconsciously  the  words  came  from  him  in 
French.  Jean  caught  one  of  his  thin  hands  and 
laughed  joyfully,  for  the  spirit  of  him  was  French 
to  the  bottom  of  his  soul. 

"I  see  it  ?  No,  neither  I  nor  lowaka ;  but  there  it 
was  in  the  snow,  as  plain  as  the  eyes  in  your  face. 
And  did  I  not  follow  the  trail  that  staggered  down 
the  mountain,  while  lowaka  brought  you  back  to 
life?  And  when  I  came  to  the  lake,  did  I  not  see 
something  black  out  upon  it,  like  a  charred  log? 
And  when  I  came  to  it,  was  it  not  the  dead  body  of 
the  missioner  from  Churchill?  Eh,  Jan  Thoreau?" 

Jan  sat  up  in  his  bed  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"Sh-h-h-h-h !"  admonished  Jean,  pressing  him 
back  gently.  "There  is  no  need  of  telling  what  is 
out  there  on  the  lake.  Only  the  Blessed  Virgin 
made  me  dream  last  night  that  you  would  like 
to  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  the  missioner  is  dead. 
The  thaw  will  open  up  the  lake  in  a  few  days.  Then 
he  will  go  down  in  the  first  slush.  And" —  Jean 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

looked  about  him  cautiously  again,  and  whispered 
low —  "if  you  see  anything  about  the  dead  missioner 
that  you  do  not  understand — think  of  Jean  de 
Gravois!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  bent  over  Jan's  white  face. 

"I  am  going  the  Athabasca  way  to-day,"  he  fin 
ished.  "Perhaps,  Jan  Thoreau,  you  will  hear  after 
a  time  that  it  would  be  best  for  Jean  de  Gravois 
never  to  return  again  to  this  Post  Lac  Bain.  If  so, 
you  will  find  him  between  Fond  du  Lac  and  the 
Beaver  River,  and  you  can  make  it  in  four  days  by 
driving  your  dogs  close  to  the  scrub-edge  of  the 
barrens,  keeping  always  where  you  can  see  the  musk« 
ox  to  the  north."  He  turned  to  the  door,  and  hesi* 
tated  there  for  a  moment,  smiling  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Jean  de  Gravois  wonders  if  Jan  Thor 
eau  understands?"  he  said,  and  passed  out. 

WTien  Cummins  returned,  he  found  Jan's  cheeks 
flushed  and  the  boy  in  a  fever. 

"Devil  take  that  Gravois !"  he  growled. 

"He  has  been  a  brother  to  me,"  said  Jan  simply. 
"I  love  him." 

On  the  second  day  after  the  Frenchman's  de- 
97 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

parture,  Jan  rose  free  of  the  fever  which  had  threat- 
ened  him  for  a  time,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  har> 
nessed  Cummins'  dogs.  The  last  of  the  trappers  had 
started  from  the  post  that  morning,  their  sledges 
and  dogs  sinking  heavily  in  the  deepening  slush; 
and  Jan  set  off  over  the  smooth  toboggan  trail  made 
by  the  company's  agent  in  his  return  to  Fort 
Churchill. 

This  trail  followed  close  along  the  base  of  the 
ridge  upon  which  he  had  fought  the  missionary, 
joining  that  of  Jean  de  Gravois  miles  beyond.  Jan 
climbed  .the  ridge.  From  where  he  had  made  his 
attack,  he  followed  the  almost  obliterated  trail  of  the 
Frenchman  and  his  Malemutes  until  he  came  to  the 
lake;  and  then  he  knew  that  Jean  de  Gravois  had 
spoken  the  truth,  for  he  found  the  missionary  with 
his  face  half  buried  in  the  s»vush,  stark  dead. 

He  no  longer  had  to  guess  at  the  meaning  of 
Jean's  words.  The  bullet-hole  under  the  dead  man's, 
arms  was  too  large  to  escape  eyes  like  Jan's.  Into 
the  little  hidden  world  which  he  treasured  in  his 
heart  there  came  another  face,  to  remain  always 
with  him — the  face  of  the  courageous  little  forest 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

dandy  who  was  hurrying  with  his  bride  back  into 
the  country  of  the  Athabasca. 

Jan  allowed  his  dogs  to  walk  all  the  way  back  to 
the  post,  and  it  was  dusk  before  they  arrived.  Ma- 
balla  had  prepared  supper,  and  Cummins  was  wait 
ing  for  him.  He  glanced  sharply  at  the  boy.  There 
was  a  smile  on  Jan's  lips,  and  there  was  something 
in  his  eyes  which  Cummins  had  never  seen  there  be 
fore.  From  that  night  they  were  no  longer  filled 
with  the  nervous,  glittering  flashes  which  at  times 
had  given  him  an  appearance  almost  of  madness.  In 
place  of  their  searching  suspicions,  there  was  a 
warmer  and  more  companionable  glow,  and  Cum 
mins  felt  the  effect  of  the  change  as  he  ate  his  cari 
bou  steak  and  talked  once  more  entirely  of  Melisse. 

A  Cree  trapper  had  found  Jan's  violin  in  the  snow, 
and  had  brought  it  to  Maballa.  Before  Cummins 
finished  his  supper,  the  boy  began  to  play,  and  he 
continued  to  play  until  the  lights  at  the  post  went 
out  and  both  the  man  and  the  child  were  deep  in 
sleep.  Then  Jan  stopped.  There  was  the  fire  of 
a  keen  wake  fulness  in  his  eyes  as  he  carefully  un 
fastened  the  strings  of  his  instrument,  and  held  it 
'  99 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

close  to  the  oil  lamp,  so  that  he  could  peer  down 
through  the  narrow  aperture  in  the  box. 

He  looked  again  at  Cummins.  The  man  wai 
sleeping  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  With  the  hooked 
iwire  which  he  used  for  cleaning  his  revolver  Jan 
fished  gentlv  at  the  very  end  of  the  box,  and  after 
three  or  four  efforts  the  wire  caught  in  something 
soft,  which  he  pulled  toward  him.  Through  the 
bulge  in  the  F-hole  he  dragged  forth  a  small,  tightly 
rolled  cylinder  of  faded  red  cloth. 

For  a  few  moments  he  sat  watching  the  deep 
breathing  of  Cummins,  unrolling  the  cloth  as  he 
watched,  until  he  had  spread  out  upon  the  table  be 
fore  him  a  number  of  closely  written  pages  of  paper. 
He  weighted  them  at  one  end  with  his  violin,  and 
held  them  down  at  the  other  with  his  hands.  The 
writing  was  in  French.  Several  of  the  pages  were  in 
a  heavy  masculine  hand,  the  words  running  one 
upon  another  so  closely  that  in  places  they  seemed 
to  be  connected ;  and  from  them  Jan  took  his  fingers, 
so  that  they  rolled  up  like  a  spring.  Over  the  others 
he  bent  his  head,  and  there  came  from  him  a  low, 
sobbing  breath. 

100 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS, 

On  these  pages  the  writing  was  that  of  a  woman, 
and  from  the  paper  there  still  rose  a  faint,  sweet 
scent  of  heliotrope.  For  half  an  hour  Jan  gazed 
upon  them,  reading  the  words  slowly,  until  he  came 
to  the  last  page. 

When  there  came  a  movement  from  over  against 
the  wall,  he  lifted  for  an  instant  a  pair  of  startled 
eyes.  Cummins  was  turning  in  his  sleep.  Sound 
lessly  Jan  tiptoed  across  the  floor,  opened  the  door, 
without  disturbing  the  slumbering  man  and  went 
out  into  the  night.  In  the  south  and  east 
there  glowed  a  soft  blaze  of  fire  where  the  big  spring 
moon  was  coming  up  over  the  forest.  As  Jan  turned 
his  face  toward  it,  a  new  and  strange  longing  crept 
into  his  heart.  He  stretched  out  his  arms,  with  the 
papers  and  his  violin  clutched  in  his  hands,  as  if 
from  out  of  that  growing  glory  a  wonderful  spirit 
was  calling  to  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  lonely  life  it  came  to  him 
• — -this  call  of  the  great  world  beyond  the  wilderness ; 
and  suddenly  he  crushed  the  woman's  letter  to  his 
lips,  and  his  voice  burst  from  him  in  whispering, 
thrilling  eagerness : 

101 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

"I  will  come  to  you — some  day — w'en  ze  leetle 
Melisse  come  too !" 

He  rolled  the  written  pages  together,  wrapped 
them  in  the  faded  red  cloth,  and  concealed  them 
again  in  the  box  of  his  violin  before  he  reentered 
the  cabin. 

The  next  morning  Cummins  stood  in  the  door, 
and  said : 

"How  warm  the  sun  is!  The  snow  and  ice  are 
going,  Jan.  It's  spring.  We'll  house  the  sledges  to 
day,  and  begin  feeding  the  dogs  on  fish." 

Each  day  thereafter  the  sun  rose  earlier,  the  day 
was  longer,  and  the  air  was  warmer;  and  with  the 
warmth  there  now  came  the  sweet  scents  of  the 
budding  earth  and  the  myriad  sounds  of  the  deep, 
unseen  life  of  the  forest,  awakening  from  its  long 
slumber  in  its  bed  of  snow.  Moose-birds  chirped 
their  mating  songs  and  flirted  from  morning  until 
night  in  bough  and  air;  ravens  fluffed  themselves 
in  the  sun;  and  snowbirds — little  black-and-white 
beauties  that  were  wont  to  whisk  about  like  so  many 
flashing  gems — changed  their  color  from  day  to  day 
until  they  became  new  creatures  in  a  new  world. 

102 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

The  poplar  buds  swelled  in  their  joy  untiJ-  they 
split  like  over  fat  peas.  The  mother  bears  come  out 
of  their  winter  dens,  accompanied  by  little  ones  born 
weeks  before,  and  taught  them  how  to  pull  down  the 
slender  saplings  for  these  same  buds.  The  moose 
returned  from  the  blizzardy  tops  of  the  great  ridges, 
where  for  good  reasons  they  had  passed  the  winter, 
followed  by  the  wolves  who  fed  upon  their  weak  and 
sick.  Everywhere  were  the  rushing  torrents  of  melt 
ing  snow,  the  crackle  of  crumbling  ice,  the  dying 
frost-cries  of  rock  and  earth  and  tree;  and  each 
night  the  pale  glow  of  the  aurora  borealis  crept  far 
ther  and  farther  toward  the  pole  in  its  fading  glory. 

The  post  fell  back  into  its  old  ways.  Now  and 
jien  a  visitor  came  in  from  out  of  the  forest,  but 
he  remained  for  only  a  day  or  two,  taking  back 
into  the  solitude  with  him  a  few  of  the  neces 
saries  of  life.  Williams  was  busy  preparing  his 
jbooks  for  the  coming  of  the  company's  chief  agent 
from  London,  and  Cummins,  who  was  helping  the 
factor,  had  a  good  deal  of  extra  time  on  his  hands. 

Before  the  last  of  the  snow  was  gone,  he  and  Jan 
began  dragging  in  logs  for  an  addition  which  they 

103 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

planned  for  the  little  cabin.  Basking  out  in  the  sun, 
with  a  huge  bearskin  for  a  floor,  Melisse  looked  upon 
the  new  home-building  with  wonderful  demonstra 
tions  of  interest  Cummins'  face  glowed  with  pleas 
ure  as  she  kicked  and  scrambled  on  the  bearskin  and 
gave  shrill-voiced  approval  of  their  efforts. 

Jan  was  the  happiest  youtK  in  the  world.  It  was 
certain  that  the  little  Melisse  understood  what  they 
were  doing,  and  the  word  passed  from  Cummins  and 
Jan  to  the  others  at  the  post,  so  that  it  happened 
frequently  during  the  building  operations  that 
Mukee  and  Per-ee,  and  even  Williams  himself, 
would  squat  for  an  hour  at  a  time  in  the  snow  near 
Melisse,  marveling  at  the  early  knowledge  which  the 
great  God  saw  fit  to  put  into  a  white  baby's  brain. 
This  miracle  came  to  be  a  matter  of  deep  discussion, 
in  which  there  were  the  few  words  but  much  thought 
of  men  born  to  silence.  One  day  Mukee  brought 
two  little  Indian  babies  and  set  them  on  the  bearskin, 
where  they  continued  to  sit  in  stoic  indifference — 
a  clear  proof  of  the  superior  development  of  Melisse. 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear  her  begin  talking 
at  any  time/1  confided  Cummins  to  Jan,  one  evening 

104 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

when  the  boy  was  tuning  his  violin.    "She  is  nearly 
six  months  old.'* 

"Do  you  suppose  she  would  begin  in  French?" 
asken  Jan,  suddenly  stopping  the  tightening  of  his 
strings. 

Cummins  stared. 

"Why?" 

Jan  dropped  his  voice  to  an  impressive  whisper. 

"Because  I  have  heard  her  many  times  say,  'Bon 
bon — bonbon — bonbon' — which  means  candee;  and 
always  I  have  given  her  candee,  an*  now  ze  leetle 
Melisse  say  'Bonbon'  all  of  ze  time." 

"Well,"  said  Cummins,  eying  him  in  half  belief. 
"Could  it  happen?" 

Like  a  shot  Jan  replied : 

"I  began  in  Engleesh,  an*  Jan  Thoreau  is  French !" 

He  began  playing,  but  Cummins  did  not  hear  much 
of  the  music.  He  went  to  the  door,  and  stared  in 
lonely  grief  at  the  top  of  the  tall  spruce  over  the 
grave.  Later  he  said  to  Jan : 

"It  would  be  bad  if  that  were  so.  Give  her  no 
more  sweet  stuff  when  she  says  'Bonbon/  Jan.  She 
must  forget!" 

105 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

The  next  day  Jan  tore  down  the  sapling  barricade 
around  the  woman's  grave,  and  from  noon  until  al 
most  sunset  he  skirted  the  sunny  side  of  a  great 
ridge  to  the  south.  When  he  came  back  he  brought 
•with  him  a  basket  of  the  early  red  snow-flowers,  with 
earth  clinging  to  their  roots.  These  he  planted 
thickly  over  the  mound  under  the  spruce,  and  around 
its  edge  he  put  rows  of  the  young  shoots  of  Labra 
dor  tea  and  backneesh. 

As  the  weather  grew  warmer,  and  spring  changed 
into  summer,  he  took  Melisse  upon  short  excursions 
with  him  into  the  forests,  and  together  they  picked 
great  armfuls  of  flowers  and  Arctic  ferns.  The 
grave  was  never  without  fresh  offerings,  and  the 
cabin,  with  its  new  addition  complete,  was  always 
filled  with  the  beautiful  things  that  spring  up  out  of 
the  earth. 

Jan  and  Melisse  were  happy;  and  in  the  joys  of 
these  two  there  was  pleasure  for  the  others  of  the 
post,  as  there  had  been  happiness  in  the  presence  of 
the  woman.  Only  upon  Cummins  had  there  settled 
a  deep  grief.  The  changes  of  spring  and  summer, 
bringing  with  them  all  that  this  desolate  world  held 

1 06 


RED    SNOW-FLOWERS 

of  warmth  and  beauty,  filled  him  with  the  excruciat 
ing  pain  of  his  great  grief,  as  if  the  woman  had  died 
but  yesterday. 

When  he  first  saw  the  red  flowers  glowing  upon 
her  grave,  he  buried  his  head  in  his  arms  and  sobbed 
like  a  child.  The  woman  had  loved  them.  She  had 
always  watched  for  the  first  red  blooms  to  shoot  up 
out  of  the  wet  earth.  A  hundred  times  he  had  gone 
with  her  to  search  for  them,  and  had  fastened  the 
first  flower  in  the  soft  beauty  of  her  hair.  Those 
were  the  days  when,  like  happy  children,  they  had 
romped  and  laughed  together  out  there  beyond  the 
black  spruce.  Often  he  had  caught  her  up  in  his 
strong  arms  and  carried  her,  tired  and  hungry  but 
gloriously  happy,  back  to  their  little  home  in  the 
clearing,  where  she  would  sit  and  laugh  at  him  as  he 
clumsily  prepared  their  supper. 

Thoughts  and  pictures  like  these  choked  him  and 
drove  him  off  alone  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness. 
When  this  spirit  impelled  him  his  moccasined  feet 
would  softly  tread  the  paths  they  had  taken  in  their 
wanderings ;  and  at  every  turn  a  new  memory  would 
spring  up  before  him,  and  he  longed  to  fling  himself 

107 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

down  there  with  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  woman  and 
die. 

Little  did  he  dream,  at  these  times,  that  Jan  and 
Melisse  were  to  cherish  these  same  paths,  that  out 
of  the  old,  dead  joys  there  were  to  spring  new  joys, 
and  that  the  new  joys  were  to  wither  and  die,  even 
as  his  own — for  a  time.  Beyond  his  own  great  sor 
row  he  saw  nothing  in  the  future.  He  gave  up 
Melisse  to  Jan. 

At  last,  his  gaunt  frame  thinned  by  sleepless  nights 
and  days  of  mental  torture,  he  said  that  the  com 
pany's  business  was  calling  him  to  Churchill,  and 
early  in  August  he  left  for  the  bay. 


108 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR   HER 

UPON  Jan  now  fell  a  great  responsibility. 
Melisse  was  his  own.  Days  passed  before  he 
could  realize  the  fullness  of  his  possession.  He  had 
meant  to  go  by  the  Athabasca  water  route  to  see 
Jean  de  Gravois,  leaving  Melisse  to  Cummins  for 
a  fortnight  or  so.  Now  he  gave  this  up.  Day  and 
night  he  guarded  the  child;  and  to  Jan's  great  joy 
it  soon  came  to  pass  that  whenever  he  was  compelled 
to  leave  her  for  a  short  time,  Melisse  would  cry  for 
him.  At  least  Maballa  assured  him  that  this  was  so, 
and  Melisse  gave  evidence  of  it  by  her  ecstatic  joy 
when  he  returned. 

When  Cummins  came  back  from  Fort  Churchill 
in  the  autumn,  he  brought  with  him  a  pack  full  of 
things  for  Melisse,  including  new  books  and  papers, 
for  which  he  had  spent  a  share  of  his  season's  earn- 

109 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

ings.  As  he  was  freeing  these  treasures  from  their 
wrapping  of  soft  caribou  skin,  with  Jan  and  Melisse 
both  looking  on,  he  stopped  suddenly  and  glanced 
from  his  knees  up  at  the  boy. 

"They're  wondering  over  at  Churchill  what  be 
came  of  the  missionary  who  left  with  the  mail,  Jan. 
They  say  he  was  last  seen  at  the  Etawney." 

"And  not  here  ?"  replied  Jan  quickly. 

"Not  that  they  know  of,"  said  Cummins,  still 
keeping  his  eyes  on  the  boy.  "The  man  who  drove 
him  never  got  back  to  Churchill.  They're  wonder 
ing  where  the  driver  went,  too.  A  company  officer 
has  gone  up  to  the  Etawney,  and  it  is  possible  he 
may  come  over  to  Lac  Bain.  I  don't  believe  he'll 
find  the  missionary." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Jan  quite  coolly.  "He  is 
probably  dead,  and  the  wolves  and  foxes  have  eaten 
him  before  this — or  mebby  ze  f eesh !" 

Cummins  resumed  his  task  of  unpacking,  and 
among  the  books  which  he  brought  forth  there  were 
two  which  he  gave  to  Jan. 

"The  supply  ship  from  London  came  in  while  I 
was  at  Churchill,  and  those  came  with  it,"  he  ex- 

110 


FOR   HER 

plained.  "They're  school-books.  There's  going  to 
be  a  school  at  Churchill  next  winter,  and  the  winter 
after  that  it  will  be  at  York  Factory,  down  on  the 
Hayes."  He  settled  back  on  his  heels  and  looked  at 
Jan.  "It's  the  first  school  that  has  ever  come  nearer 
than  four  hundred  miles  of  us.  That's  at  Prince 
Albert." 

For  many  succeeding  days  Jan  took  long  walks 
alone  in  the  forest  trails,  and  silently  thrashed  out 
the  two  problems  which  Cummins  had  brought  back 
from  Churchill  for  him.  Should  he  warn  Jean  de 
Gravois  that  a  company  officer  was  investigating 
the  disappearance  of  the  missionary? 

At  first  his  impulse  was  to  go  at  once  into  Jean's 
haunts  beyond  the  Fond  du  Lac,  and  give  him  the 
news.  But  even  if  the  officer  did  come  to  Post  Lac 
Bain,  how  would  he  know  that  the  missionary  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  and  that  Jean  de  Gravois 
was  accountable  for  it?  So  in  the  end  Jan  decided 
•that  it  would  be  folly  to  stir  up  the  little  hunter's 
fears,  and  he  thought  no  more  of  the  company's  in 
vestigator  who  had  gone  up  to  the  Etawney. 

But  the  second  problem  was  one  whose  perplex- 
in 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

ities  troubled  him.  Cummins'  word  of  the  school  at 
Churchill  had  put  a  new  and  thrilling  thought  into 
his  head,  and  always  with  that  thought  he  coupled 
visions  of  the  growing  Melisse.  This  year  the  school 
would  be  at  Churchill,  and  the  next  at  York  Factory, 
and  after  that  it  might  be  gone  for  ever,  so  that  when 
Melisse  grew  up  there  would  be  none  nearer  than 
what  Jan  looked  upon  as  the  other  end  of  the  world. 
Why  could  not  he  go  to  school  for  Melisse,  and  store 
up  treasures  which  in  time  he  might  turn  over  to 
her? 

The  scheme  was  a  colossal  one,  by  all  odds  the 
largest  that  had  ever  entered  into  his  dreams  of  what 
life  held  for  him — that  he,  Jan  Thoreau,  should 
learn  to  read  and  write,  and  do  other  things  like  the 
people  of  the  far  South,  so  that  he  might  help  to 
make  the  little  creature  in  the  cabin  like  her  who 
slept  under  the  watchful  spruce.  He  was  stirred  to 
the  depths  of  his  soul,  now  with  fear,  again  with 
hope  and  desire  and  ambition ;  and  it  was  not  until 
the  first  cold  chills  of  approaching  winter  crept  down 
from  the  north  and  east  that  the  ultimate  test  came, 
and  he  told  Cummins  of  his  intention. 

112 


FOR   HER 

Once  his  mind  was  settled,  Jan  lost  no  time  in 
putting  his  plans  into  action.  Mukee  knew  the  trail 
to  Churchill,  and  agreed  to  leave  with  him  on  the 
third  day — which  gave  Williams'  wife  time  to  make 
him  a  new  coat  of  caribou  skin. 

On  the  second  evening  he  played  for  the  last  time 
in  the  little  cabin ;  and  after  Melisse  had  fallen  asleep 
he  took  her  up  gently  in  his  arms  and  held  her  there 
for  a  long  time,  while  Cummins  looked  on  in  silence. 
When  he  replaced  her  in  the  little  bed  against  the 
wall,  Cummins  put  one  of  his  long  arms  about  the 
boy's  shoulders  and  led  him  to  the  door,  where  they 
stood  looking  out  upon  the  grim  desolation  of  the 
forest  that  rose  black  and  silent  against  the  starlit 
background  of  the  sky.  High  above  the  thick  tops 
of  the  spruce  rose  the  lone  tree  over  the  grave,  like 
a  dark  finger  pointing  up  into  the  night,  and  Cum 
mins'  eyes  rested  there. 

"She  heard  you  first  that  night,  Jan,"  he  spoke 
softly.  "She  knew  that  you  were  coming  long  be 
fore  I  could  hear  anything  but  the  crackling  in  the 
skies.  I  believe — she  knows — now — " 

The   arm   about   Jan's   shoulder  tightened,   and 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Cummins'  head  dropped  until  his  rough  cheek  rest 
ed  upon  the  boy's  hair.  There  was  something  of  the 
gentleness  of  love  in  what  he  did,  and  in  response  to 
it  Jan  caught  the  hand  that  was  hanging  over  his 
shoulder  in  both  his  own. 

"Boy,  won't  you  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  why 
you  came  that  night?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  now,  that  I  come  from  ze  Great 
Bear,"  whispered  Jan.  "I  am  only  Jan  Thoreau,  an' 
ze  great  God  made  me  come  that  night  because" — 
his  heart  throbbed  with  sudden  inspiration  as  he 
looked  up  into  his  companion's  face — "because  ze 
leetle  Melisse  was  here,"  he  finished. 

For  a  time  Cummins  made  no  move  or  sound; 
then  he  drew  the  boy  back  into  the  cabin,  and  from 
the  little  gingham-covered  box  in  the  corner  he 
took  a  buckskin  bag. 

"You  are  going  to  Churchill  for  Melisse  and  for 
her,"  he  said  in  a  voice  pitched  low  that  it  might 
not  awaken  the  baby.  "Take  this." 

Jan  drew  a  step  back. 

"No,  I  fin'  work  with  ze  compan-ee  at  Churchill, 
114 


FOR   HER 

That  is  ze  gold  for  Melisse  when  she  grow  up.  Jan 
Thoreau  is  no — what  you  call  heem?" 

His  teeth  gleamed  in  a  smile,  but  it  lasted  only  for 
an  instant.  Cummins'  face  darkened,  and  he  caught 
him  firmly,  almost  roughly,  by  the  arm. 

"Then  Jan  Thoreau  will  never  come  back  to 
Melisse,"  he  exclaimed  with  finality.  "You  are 
going  to  Churchill  to  be  at  school,  and  not  to  work 
with  your  hands.  They  are  sending  you.  Do  you 
understand,  boy?  They!"  There  was  a  fierce 
tremor  in  his  voice.  "Which  will  it  be?  Will  you 
take  the  bag,  or  will  you  never  again  come  back  to 
Lac  Bain?" 

Dumbly  Jan  reached  out  and  took  the  buckskin 
pouch.  A  dull  flush  burned  in  his  cheeks.  Cummins 
looked  in  wonder  upon  the  strange  look  that  came 
into  his  eyes. 

"I  pay  back  this  gold  to  you  and  Melisse  a  hun 
dred  times!"  he  cried  tensely.  "I  swear  it,  an'  I 
swear  that  Jan  Thoreau  mak'  no  lie !" 

Unconsciously,  with  the  buckskin  bag  clutched  in 
one  hand,  he  had  stretched  out  his  other  arm  to  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

violin  hanging  against  the  wall.  Cummins  turned  tc 
look.  When  he  faced  him  again  the  boy's  arm  had 
fallen  to  his  side  and  his  cheeks  were  white. 

The  next  day  he  left.  No  one  heard  his  last 
words  to  Melisse,  or  witnessed  his  final  leave-taking 
of  her,  for  Cummins  sympathized  with  the  boy's 
grief  and  went  out  of  the  cabin  an  hour  before 
Mukee  was  ready  with  his  pack.  The  last  that  he 
heard  was  Jan's  violin  playing  low,  sweet  music  to 
the  child.  Three  weeks  later,  when  Mukee  returned 
to  Lac  Bain,  he  said  that  Jan  had  traveled  to 
Churchill  like  one  who  had  lost  his  tongue,  and  that 
far  into  the  nights  he  had  played  lonely  dirges  upon 
his  violin. 


118 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    RUMOR    FROM    THE    SOUTH 

IT  was  a  long  winter  for  Cummins  and  Melisse. 
It  was  a  longer  one  for  Jan.  He  had  taken  with 
him  a  letter  from  the  factor  at  Lac  Bain  to  the  factor 
at  Churchill,  and  he  found  quarters  with  the  chief 
clerk's  assistant  at  the  post — a  young,  red-faced 
man  who  had  come  over  on  the  ship  from  England. 
He  was  a  cheerful,  good-natured  young  fellow,  and 
when  he  learned  that  his  new  associate  had  tramped 
all  the  way  from  the  Barren  Lands  to  attend  the  new 
public  school,  he  at  once  invested  himself  with  the 
responsibilities  of  a  private  tutor. 

He  taught  Jan,  first  of  all,  to  say  "is"  in  place  of 
"ees."  It  was  a  tremendous  lesson  for  Jan,  but  he 
struggled  with  it  manfully,  and  a  week  after  his 
arrival,  when  one  evening  he  was  tuning  his  violin 
to  play  for  young  MacDonald,  he  said  with  eager 
gravity : 

117 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

"Ah,  I  have  it  now,  Mr.  MacDonald.  It  ees  not 
'ees!  it  ees  'eesf  " 

MacDonald  roared,  but  persisted,  and  in  time  Jan 
began  to  get  the  twist  out  of  his  tongue. 

The  school  opened  in  November,  and  Jan  found 
himself  one  of  twenty  or  so,  gathered  there  from 
forty  thousand  square  miles  of  wilderness.  Two 
white  youths  and  a  half-breed  had  come  from  the 
Etawney;  the  factor  at  Nelson  House  sent  up  his 
son,  and  from  the  upper  waters  of  the  Little 
Churchill  there  came  three  others. 

From  the  first,  Jan's  music  found  him  a  premier 
place  in  the  interest  of  the  tutor  sent  over  by  the 
company.  He  studied  by  night  as  well  as  by  day, 
and  by  the  end  of  the  second  month  his  only  compet 
itor  was  the  youth  from  Nelson  House.  His  great 
est  source  of  knowledge  was  not  the  teacher,  but 
MacDonald.  There  was  in  him  no  inherent  desire 
for  the  learning  of  the  people  to  the  south.  That  he 
was  storing  away,  like  a  faithful  machine,  for  the 
use  of  Melisse.  But  MacDonald  gave  him  that  for 
which  his  soul  longed — a  picture  of  life  as  it  existed 
in  the  wonderful  world  beyond  the  wilderness,  i& 

118 


A   RUMOR    FROM    THE    SOUTH 

Tyhich  some  strange  spirit  within  him,  growing 
stronger  as  the  weeks  and  months  passed,  seemed 
projecting  his  hopes  and  his  ambitions. 

Between  his  thoughts  of  Melisse  and  Lac  Bain,  he 
dreamed  of  that  other  world;  and  several  times 
during  the  winter  he  took  the  little  roll  from  the  box 
of  his  violin,  and  read  again  and  again  the  written 
pages  that  it  contained. 

"Some  time  I  will  go,"  he  assured  himself  always. 
"Some  time,  when  Melisse  is  a  little  older,  and  can 
go  too." 

To  young  MacDonald,  the  boy  from  Lac  Bain  was 
a  "find."  The  Scottish  youth  was  filled  with  an 
immense  longing  for  home;  and  as  his  homesick 
ness  grew,  he  poured  more  and  more  into  Jan's  at 
tentive  ears  his  knowledge  of  the  world  from  which 
he  had  come.  He  told  him  the  history  of  the  old 
brass  cannon  that  lay  abandoned  among  the  vines 
and  bushes,  where  a  fort  had  stood  at  Churchill 
many  years  before.  He  described  the  coming  of  the 
first  ship  into  the  great  bay;  told  of  Hudson  and  his 
men,  of  great  wars  that  his  listener  had  never 
dreamed  of,  of  kings  and  queens  and  strange  na- 

119 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

tions.  At  night  he  read  a  great  deal  to  Jan  out  a* 
books  that  he  had  brought  over  with  him. 

As  the  weeks  and  months  passed,  the  strange 
spirit  that  was  calling  to  the  forest  boy  out  of  that 
other  world  stirred  more  restlessly  within  him.  At 
times  it  urged  him  to  confide  in  MacDonald  what 
was  hidden  away  in  the  box  of  his  violin. 

The  secret  nearly  burst  from  him  one  Sunday, 
when  MacDonald  said : 

"I'm  going  home  on  the  ship  that  comes  over 
next  summer.  What  do  you  say  to  going  back  with 
me,  Jan?" 

The  spirit  surged  through  Jan  in  a  hot  flood,  and 
it  was  only  an  accident  that  kept  him  from  saying 
what  was  in  his  heart. 

They  were  standing  with  the  icy  bay  stretching 
off  in  interminable  miles  toward  the  pole.  A  little 
way  from  them,  the  restless  tide  was  beating  up 
through  the  broken  ice,  and  eating  deeper  into  the 
frozen  shore.  From  out  of  the  bank  there  projected, 
here  and  there,  the  ends  of  dark,  box-like  objects, 
which,  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  company,  had  been 
gun-cases.  In  them  were  the  bones  of  men  who  had 

120 


A   RUMOR   FROM   THE    SOUTH 

lived  and  died  an  age  ago ;  and  as  Jan  looked  at  the 
silent  coffins,  now  falling  into  the  sea,  another  spirit 
— the  spirit  that  bound  him  to  Melisse — entered  into 
him,  and  he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  what  might 
happen  in  the  passing  of  a  year. 

It  was  this  spirit  that  won.  In  the  spring,  Jan 
went  back  to  Lac  Bain  with  the  company's  supplies. 
The  next  autumn  he  followed  the  school  to  York 
Factory,  and  the  third  year  he  joined  it  at  Nelson 
House.  Then  the  company's  teacher  died,  and  no 
one  came  to  fill  his  place. 

In  midwinter  of  this  third  year,  Jan  returned  to 
Lac  Bain,  and,  hugging  the  delighted  Melisse  close 
in  his  arms,  he  told  her  that  never  again  would  he 
go  away  without  her.  Melisse,  tightening  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  made  his  promise  sacred  by  offer 
ing  her  little  rosebud  of  a  mouth  for  him  to  kiss. 
Later,  the  restless  spirit  slumbering  within  his  breast 
urged  him  to  speak  to  Cummins. 

"When  Melisse  is  a  little  older,  should  we  not 
go  with  her  into  the  South?"  he  said.  "She  must 
not  live  for  ever  in  a  place  like  this." 

Cummins  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  as  if  he 
121 


THE   HONOR   OF   TH£   BIG   SNOWS 

did  not  understand.  When  Jan's  meaning  struck 
home,  his  eyes  hardened,  and  there  was  the  vibrant 
ring  of  steel  in  his  quiet  voice. 

"Her  mother  will  be  out  there  under  the  old 
spruce  until  the  end  of  time/'  he  said  slowly;  "and 
we  will  never  leave  her — unless,  some  day,  Melisse 
goes  alone." 

From  that  hour  Jan  no  longer  looked  into  the  box 
of  his  violin.  He  struggled  against  the  desire  that 
had  grown  with  his  years  until  he  believed  that  he 
had  crushed  it  and  stamped  it  out  of  his  existence. 
In  his  life  there  came  to  be  but  one  rising  and  one 
setting  of  the  sun.  Melisse  was  his  universe.  She 
crowded  his  heart  until  beyond  her  he  began  to  lose 
visions  of  any  other  world. 

Each  day  added  to  his  joy.  He.  called  her  "my 
little  sister,"  and  with  sweet  gravity  Melisse  called 
him  "brother  Jan,"  and  returned  in  full  measure  his 
boundless  love.  He  marked  the  slow  turning  of  her 
flaxen  hair  into  sunny  gold,  and  month  by  month 
watched  joyfully  the  deepening  of  that  gold  into 
warm  shades  of  brown.  She  was  to  be  like  her 
mother!  Jan's  soul  rejoiced,  and  in  his  silent  way 

122 


A   RUMOI7    FROM    THE    SOUTH 

Cummins  offeree?  up  wordless  prayers  of  thankful 
ness. 

So  matters  st*x>d  at  Post  Lac  Bain  in  the  beginning 
of  Melisse's  ninth  year,  when  up  from  the  south 
there  came  a  -*umor.  As  civil  war  spreads  its  deep 
est  gloom,  as,  the  struggle  of  father  against  son  and 
brother  agpfost  brother  stifles  the  breathing  of  na 
tions,  so  this  rumor  set  creeping  a  deep  pall  over  the 
forest  people. 

Rumor  grew  into  rumor.  From  the  east,  the 
soul'h  and  the  west  they  multiplied,  until  on  all  sides 
the  Paul  Reveres  of  the  wilderness  carried  news 
that  the  Red  Terror  was  at  their  heels,  and  the  chill 
of  a  great  fear  swept  like  a  shivering  wind  from  the 
edge  of  civilization  to  the  bay. 


I2J 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   RED   TERROR 

NINETEEN  years  before  these  same  rumors 
had  come  up  from  the  south,  and  the  Red 
Terror  had  followed.  The  horror  of  it  still  remained 
with  the  forest  people;  for  a  thousand  unmarked 
graves,  shunned  like  a  pestilence,  and  scattered  from 
the  lower  waters  of  James  Bay  to  the  lake  country 
of  the  Athabasca,  gave  evidence  of  the  toll  it  de 
manded. 

From  DuBrochet,  on  Reindeer  Lake,  authentic 
word  first  came  to  Lac  Bain  early  in  the  winter. 
Henderson  was  factor  there,  and  he  passed  up  the 
warning  that  had  come  to  him  from  Nelson  House 
and  the  country  to  the  southeast. 

"There's  smallpox  on  the  Nelson,"  his  messenger 
informed  Williams,  "and  it  has  struck  the  Crees  on 
Wollaston  Lake.  God  only  knows  what  it  is  doing 
to  the  bay  Indians,  but  we  hear  that  it  is  wiping  out 

124 


THE  RED  TERROR 

the  Chippewayans  between  the  Albany  and  the 
Churchill."  He  left  the  same  day  with  his  winded 
dogs.  "I'm  off  for  the  Revillon  people  to  the  west, 
with  the  compliments  of  our  company,"  he  ex 
plained. 

Three  days  later,  word  came  from  Churchill  that 
all  of  the  company's  servants  and  her  majesty's  sub 
jects  west  of  the  bay  should  prepare  themselves  for 
the  coming  of  the  Red  Terror.  Williams'  thick 
face  went  as  white  as  the  paper  he  held,  as  he  read 
the  words  of  the  Churchill  factor. 

"It  means  dig  graves,"  he  said.  "That's  the  only 
preparation  we  can  make !" 

He  read  the  paper  aloud  to  the  men  at  Lac  Bain, 
and  every  available  man  was  detailed  to  spread  the 
warning  throughout  the  post's  territory.  There  was 
a  quick  harnessing  of  dogs,  and  on  each  sledge  that 
went  out  was  a  roll  of  red  cotton  cloth.  Williams5 
face  was  still  white  as  he  passed  these  rolls  out  from 
the  company's  store.  They  were  ominous  of  death, 
lurid  signals  of  pestilence  and  horror,  and  the  touch 
of  them  sent  shuddering  chills  through  the  men  who 
were  about  to  scatter  them  among  the  forest  people. 

125 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Jan  went  over  the  Churchill  trail,  and  then  swung 
southward  along  the  Hasabala,  where  the  country 
was  crisscrossed  with  trap-lines  of  the  half-breeds 
and  the  French.  First,  he  struck  the  cabin  of  Crois- 
set  and  his  wife,  and  left  part  of  his  cloth.  Then  he 
turned  westward,  while  Croisset  harnessed  his  dogs 
and  hurried  with  a  quarter  of  the  roll  to  the  south. 
Between  the  Hasabala  and  Klokol  Lake,  Jan  found 
three  other  cabins,  and  at  each  he  left  a  bit  of  the 
red  cotton.  Forty  miles  to  the  south,  somewhere  on 
the  Porcupine,  were  the  lines  of  Henry  Langlois, 
the  post's  greatest  fox-hunter.  On  the  morning  of 
the  third  day,  Jan  set  of!  in  search  of  Langlois ;  and 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  he  came  upon 
a  well-beaten  snow-shoe  trail.  On  this  he  camped 
until  morning.  When  dawn  came  he  began  follow 
ing  it. 

He  passed  half  a  dozen  of  Langlois'  trap-houses. 
In  none  of  them  was  there  bait.  In  three  the  traps 
were  sprung.  In  the  seventh  he  found  the  remains 
of  a  red  fox  that  had  been  eaten  until  there  was  little 
but  the  bones  left.  Two  houses  beyond  there  was 
an  ermine  in  a  trap,  with  its  head  eaten  off.  With 

126 


THE  RED  TERROR 

growing  perplexity,  Jan  examined  the  snow-shoe 
trails  in  the  snow.  The  most  recent  of  them  were 
days  old.  He  urged  on  his  dogs,  stopping  no  more 
at  the  trap-houses,  until,  with  a  shrieking  command, 
he  brought  them  to  a  halt  at  the  edge  of  a  clearing 
cut  in  the  forest.  A  dozen  rods  ahead  of  him  was 
the  trapper's  cabin.  Over  it,  hanging  limply  to  a 
sapling  pole,  was  the  red  signal  of  horror. 

With  a  terrified  cry  to  the  dogs,  Jan  ran  back,  and 
the  team  turned  about  and  followed  him  in  a  tangled 
mass.  Then  he  stopped.  There  was  no  smoke  ris 
ing  from  the  clay  chimney  on  the  little  cabin.  Its 
one  window  was  white  with  frost.  Again  and  again 
he  shouted,  but  no  sign  of  life  responded  to  his  cries. 
He  fired  his  rifle  twice,  and  waited  with  his  mittened 
hand  over  his  mouth  and  nostrils.  There  was  no  re 
ply.  Then,  abandoning  hope,  he  turned  back  into 
the  north,  and  gave  his  dogs  no  rest  until  he  had 
reached  Lac  Bain. 

His  team  came  in  half  dead.  Both  Cummins  and 
Williams  rushed  out  to  meet  him  as  he  drove  up  be 
fore  the  company's  store. 

"The  red  flag  is  over  Langlois'  cabin!"  he  cried. 
127 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

*I  fired  my  rifle  and  shouted.  There  is  no  life! 
Langlois  is  dead !" 

"Great  God!"  groaned  Williams. 

His  red  face  changed  to  a  sickly  pallor,  and  he 
stood  with  his  thick  hands  clenched,  while  Cummins 
took  charge  of  the  dogs  and  Jan  went  into  the 
store  for  something  to  eat. 

Mukee  and  Per-ee  returned  to  the  post  the  next 
day.  Young  Williams  followed  close  after  them, 
filled  with  terror.  He  had  found  the  plague  among 
the  Crees  of  the  Waterfound. 

Each  day  added  to  the  gloom  at  Lac  Bain.  For 
a  time  Jan  could  not  fully  understand,  and  he  still 
played  his  violin  and  romped  joyfully  with  Melisse 
in  the  little  cabin.  He  had  not  lived  through  the 
plague  of  nineteen  years  before.  Most  of  the  others 
had,  even  to  Mukee,  the  youngest  of  them  all. 

Jan  did  not  know  that  it  was  this  Red  Terror 
that  came  like  a  Nemesis  of  the  gods  to  cut  down  the 
people  of  the  great  Northland,  until  they  were  fewer 
in  number  than  those  of  the  Sahara  desert.  But  he 
learned  quickly.  In  February,  the  Crees  along  Wol- 
laston  Lake  were  practically  wiped  out.  Red  flags 

128 


THE  RED  TERROR 

marked  the  trail  of  the  Nelson.  Death  leaped  from 
cabin  to  cabin  in  the  wilderness  to  the  west.  By  the 
middle  of  the  month,  Lac  Bain  was  hemmed  in  by 
the  plague  on  all  sides  but  the  north. 

The  post's  trap-lines  had  been  shortened;  now 
they  were  abandoned  entirely,  and  the  great  fight 
began.  Williams  assembled  his  men,  and  told  them 
how  that  same  battle  had  been  fought  nearly  two 
decades  before.  For  sixty  miles  about  the  post 
every  cabin  and  wigwam  that  floated  a  red  flag  must 
be  visited — and  burned  if  the  occupants  were  dead. 
In  learning  whether  life  or  death  existed  in  these 
places  lay  the  peril  for  those  who  undertook  the  task. 
It  was  a  dangerous  mission.  It  meant  facing  a 
death  from  which  those  who  listened  to  the  old 
factor  shrank  with  dread;  yet,  when  the  call  came, 
they  responded  to  a  man. 

Cummins  and  Jan  ate  their  last  supper  together, 
with  Melisse  sitting  between  them  and  wondering  at 
their  silence.  When  it  was  over,  the  two  went  out 
side. 

"Mukee  wasn't  at  the  store,"  said  Cummins  in  a 
thick,  strained  voice,  halting  Jan  in  the  gloom  behind 

129 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

the  cabin.  "Williams  thought  he  was  off  to 
south  with  his  dogs.  But  he  isn't.  I  saw  him  drag 
himself  into  his  shack,  like  a  sick  dog,  an  hour  oefore 
dusk.  There'll  be  a  red  flag  over  Lac  Bain  in  the 
morning." 

Jan  stifled  the  sharp  cry  on  his  lips. 

"Ah,  there's  a  light!"  cried  Cummkis.  "It's  a 
pitch  torch  burning  in  front  of  his  door !" 

A  shrill,  quavering  cry  came  from  the  direction  of 
Mukee's  cabin,  and  the  two  recognized  it  as  the  voice 
of  the  half-breed's  father — a  wordless  cry,  rising 
and  dying  away  again  and  again,  like  the  wailing  of 
a  dog.  Sudden  lights  flashed  into  the  night,  as  they 
had  flashed  years  ago  when  Cummins  staggered 
forth  from  his  home  with  word  of  the  woman's 
death.  He  gripped  Jan's  arm  in  a  sudden  spasm  of 
horror. 

"The  flag  is  up  now!"  he  whispered  huskily.  "Go 
back  to  Melisse.  There  is  food  in  the  house  for  a 
month,  and  you  can  bring  the  wood  in  to-night.  Bar 
the  door.  Open  only  the  back  window  for  air.  Stay 
inside — with  her — until  it  is  all  over.  Go!" 

"To  the  red  flags,  that  is  where  I  will  go !"  cried 
130 


THE  RED  TERROR 

Jan  fiercely,  wrenching  his  arm  free.  "It  is  your 
place  to  stay  with  Melisse !" 

"My  place  is  with  the  men." 

"And  mine?"  Jan  drew  himself  up  rigid. 

"One  of  us  must  shut  himself  up  with  her," 
pleaded  Cummins.  "It  must  be  you."  His  face 
gleamed  white  in  the  darkness.  "You  came — that 
night — because  Melisse  was  here.  Something  sent 
you — something — don't  you  understand  ?  And  since 
then  she  has  never  been  near  to  death  until  now. 
You  must  stay  with  Melisse — with  your  violin!" 

"Melisse  herself  shall  choose,"  replied  Jan.  "We 
will  go  into  the  cabin,  and  the  one  to  whom  she 
comes  first  goes  among  the  red  flags.  The  other 
shuts  himself  in  the  cabin  until  the  plague  is  gone.'5 

He  turned  swiftly  back  to  the  door.  As  he  opened 
it,  he  stepped  aside  to  let  Cummins  enter  first,  and 
behind  the  other's  broad  back  he  leaped  quickly  to 
one  side,  his  eyes  glowing,  his  white  teeth  gleaming 
in  a  smile.  Unseen  by  Cummins,  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  to  Melisse,  who  was  playing  with  the 
strings  of  his  violin  on  the  table. 

He  had  done  this  a  thousand  times,  and  Melisse 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

knew  what  it  meant — a  kiss  and  a  joyous  toss  half 
way  to  the  ceiling.  She  jumped  from  her  stool  and 
ran  to  him;  but  this  time,  instead  of  hoisting  her 
above  his  head,  he  hugged  her  up  close  to  his  breast, 
and  buried  his  face  in  her  soft  hair.  His  eyes  looked 
over  her  in  triumph  to  Cummins. 

"Up,  Jan,  up — 'way  up !"  cried  Melisse. 

He  tossed  her  until  she  half  turned  in  midair, 
kissed  her  again  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
set  her,  laughing  and  happy,  on  the  edge  of  the 
table. 

"I  am  going  down  among  the  sick  Crees  in  Cum 
mins'  place,"  said  Jan  to  Williams,  half  an  hour 
later.  "Now  that  the  plague  has  come  to  Lac  Bain, 
he  must  stay  with  Melisse," 


132 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   LONG   WAITING 

THE  next  morning  Jan  struck  out  over  his  old 
trail  to  the  Hasabala.  The  Crees  were  gone 
He  spent  a  day  swinging  east  and  west,  and  found 
old  trails  leading  into  the  north. 

"They  have  gone  up  among  the  Eskimos,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "Ah,  Kazan,  what  in  the  name  of  the 
saints  is  that?" 

The  leading  dog  dropped  upon  his  haunches  with 
a  menacing  growl  as  a  lone  figure  staggered  across 
the  snow  toward  them.  It  was  Croisset.  With  a 
groan,  he  dropped  upon  the  sledge. 

"I  am  sick  and  starving!"  he  wailed.  "The  fiend 
himself  has  got  into  my  cabin,  and  for  three  days 
I've  had  nothing  but  snow  and  a  raw  whisky-jack !" 

"Sick!"  cried  Jan,  drawing  a  step  away  from  him. 

"Yes,  sick  from  an  empty  belly,  and  this,  and 
this!"  He  showed  a  forearm  done  up  in  a  bloody 

133 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

rag,  and  pointed  to  his  neck,  from  which  the  skin 
was  peeling.  "I  was  gone  ten  days  with  that  red 
cloth  you  gave  me;  and  when  I  came  back,  if  there 
wasn't  the  horror  itself  grinning  at  me  from  the  top 
of  my  own  shanty!  I  tried  to  get  in,  but  my  wife 
barred  the  door,  and  said  that  she  would  shoot  me 
if  I  didn't  get  back  into  the  woods.  I  tried  to  steal 
in  at  night  through  a  window,  and  she  drenched  me 
in  hot  water.  I  built  a  wigwam  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  and  stayed  there  for  five  days.  Hon-gree! 
Blessed  saints,  I  had  no  matches,  no  grub ;  and  when 
I  got  close  enough  to  yell  these  things  to  her,  she 
kept  her  word  and  plunked  me  through  a  crack  in 
the  door,  so  that  I  lost  a  pint  of  blood  from  this 
arm." 

"I'll  give  you  something  to  eat,"  laughed  Jan,  un 
doing  his  pack.  "How  long  has  the  red  flag  been 
up?" 

"I've  lost  all  count  of  time,  but  it's  twelve  days, 
if  an  hour,  and  I  swear  it's  going  to  take  all  winter 
to  get  it  down !" 

"It's  not  the  plague.    Go  back  and  tell  your  wife 


so." 


134 


A   LONG   WAITING 

"And  get  shot  for  my  pains!'*  groaned  Croisset, 
digging  into  meat  and  biscuit.  "I'm  bound  for  Lac 
Bain,  if  you'll  give  me  a  dozen  matches.  That 
whisky-jack  will  remain  with  me  until  I  die,  for 
when  I  ate  him  I  forgot  to  take  out  his  insides !" 

"You're  a  lucky  man,  Croisset.  It's  good  proof 
that  she  loves  you." 

"If  bullets  and  hot  water  and  an  empty  belly  are 
proofs,  she  loves  me  a  great  deal,  Jan  ThoreauJ 
Though  I  don't  believe  she  meant  to  hit  me.  It  was 
a  woman's  bad  aim." 

Jan  left  him  beside  a  good  fire,  and  turned  into 
the  southwest  to  burn  Langlois  and  his  cabin.  The 
red  flag  still  floated  where  he  had  seen  it  weeks  be 
fore.  The  windows  were  thicker  with  frost.  He 
shouted,  beat  upon  the  door  with  the  butt  of  his 
rifle  and  broke  in  the  windows.  The  silence  of  death 
quickened  the  beating  of  his  heart  when  he  stopped 
to  listen.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Langlois  lay  dead 
in  his  little  home. 

Jan  brought  dry  brushwood  from  the  forest,  and 
piled  it  high  against  the  logs.  Upon  his  sledge  he 
sat  and  watched  the  fire  until  the  cabin  was  a  fur 
nace  of  leaping  flame. 

135 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

He  continued  westward.  At  the  head  of  the  POP 
cupine  he  found  the  remains  of  three  burned  wig 
wams,  and  from  one  of  them  he  dug  out  charred 
bones.  Down  the  Porcupine  he  went  slowly,  doub 
ling  to  the  east  and  west,  until,  at  its  junction  with 
Gray  Otter  Creek,  he  met  a  Cree,  who  told  him  that 
twenty  miles  farther  on  there  was  an  abandoned 
village  of  six  teepees.  Toward  these  he  boldly  set 
forth,  praying  as  he  went  that  the  angels  were  guard 
ing  Melisse  at  Post  Lac  Bain. 

Croisset  reached  the  post  forty-eight  hours  after 
he  had  encountered  Jan. 

"The  red  flag  is  everywhere!"  he  cried,  catching 
sight  of  the  signal  over  Mukee's  cabin.  "It  is  to  the 
east  and  west  of  the  Hasabala  as  thick  as  jays  in 
springtime !" 

The  Cree  from  the  Gray  Otter  drove  in  on  his 
way  north. 

"Six  wigwams  with  dead  in  them,"  he  reported 
in  his  own  language  to  Williams.  "A  company  man, 
with  a  one-eyed  leader  and  four  trailers,  left  the 
Gray  Otter  to  burn  them/' 

Williams  took  down  his  birch-bark  moose-horn 

136 


A   LONG   WAITING 

and  bellowed  a  weird  signal  to  Cummins,  who 
opened  a  crack  of  his  door  to  listen,  with  Melisse 
close  beside  him. 

"Thoreau  is  in  the  thick  of  it  to  the  south,"  he 
called.  "There's  too  much  of  it  for  him,  and  I'm 
going  down  with  the  dogs.  Croisset  will  stay  in  the 
store  for  a  few  days." 

Melisse  heard  the  words,  and  her  eyes  were  big 
with  fear  when  her  father  turned  from  closing  and 
bolting  the  door.  In  more  than  a  childish  way,  she 
knew  that  Jan  had  gone  forth  to  face  a  great  dan 
ger.  The  grim  laws  of  the  savage  world  in  which 
she  lived  had  already  begun  to  fix  their  influence 
upon  her,  quickening  her  instinct  and  reason,  just 
as  they  hastened  the  lives  of  Indian  children  into  the 
responsibilities  of  men  and  women  before  they  had 
reached  fifteen. 

She  knew  what  the  red  flag  over  Mukee's  cabin 
meant.  She  knew  that  the  air  of  this  world  of  hers 
had  become  filled  with  peril  to  those  who  breathed 
it,  and  that  people  were  dying  out  in  the  forests; 
that  all  about  them  there  was  a  terrible,  unseen  thing 
which  her  father  called  the  plague,  and  that  Jan  had 

137 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

gone  forth  to  fight  it,  to  breathe  it,  and,  perhaps,  to 
die  in  it.  Their  own  door  was  locked  and  bolted 
against  it.  She  dared  not  even  thrust  her  head  from 
the  window  which  was  opened  for  a  short  time  each 
day ;  and  until  Cummins  assured  her  that  there  was 
no  danger  in  the  sunshine,  she  shunned  the  few  pale 
rays  that  shot  through  the  cabin-window  at  midday. 

Unconsciously,  Cummins  added  to  her  fears  in 
more  ways  than  one,  and  as  he  answered  her  ques 
tions  truthfully,  her  knowledge  increased  day  by 
day.  She  thought  more  and  more  of  Jan.  She 
watched  for  him  through  the  two  windows  of  her 
home.  Every  sound  from  outside  brought  her  to 
them  with  eager  hope;  and  always  her  heart  sank 
with  disappointment,  and  the  tears  would  come  very 
near  to  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  nothing  but  the  ter 
rible  red  flag  clinging  to  the  pole  over  Mukee's 
cabin. 

In  the  little  Bible  which  her  mother  had  left  there 
was  written,  on  the  ragged  fly-leaf,  a  simple  prayer. 
Each  night,  as  she  knelt  beside  her  cot  and  repeated 
this  prayer,  she  paused  at  the  end,  and  added : 

"Dear  Father  in  Heaven,  please  take  care  of  Jan !" 
138 


A   LONG   WAITING 

The  days  brought  quick  changes  now.  One  morn 
ing  the  moose-horn  called  Cummins  to  the  door.  It 
was  the  fifth  day  after  Williams  had  gone  south. 

"There  was  no  smoke  this  morning,  and  I  looked 
through  the  window/'  shouted  Croisset.  "Mukee 
and  the  old  man  are  both  dead.  I'm  going  to  burn 
the  cabin." 

A  stifled  groan  of  anguish  fell  from  Cummins' 
lips  as  he  went  like  a  dazed  man  to  his  cot  and  flung 
himself  face  downward  upon  it.  Melisse  could  see 
his  strong  frame  shaking,  as  if  he  were  crying  like 
a  child ;  and  twining  her  arms  tightly  about  his  neck, 
she  sobbed  out  her  passionate  grief  against  his  rough 
cheek.  She  did  not  know  the  part  that  Mukee  had 
played  in  the  life  of  the  sweet  woman  who  had  once 
lived  in  this  same  little  cabin ;  she  knew  only  that  he 
was  dead ;  that  the  terrible  thing  had  killed  him,  and 
that,  next  to  her  father  and  Jan,  she  had  loved  him 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 

Soon  she  heard  a  strange  sound,  and  ran  to  the 
window.  Mukee's  cabin  was  in  flames.  Wild-eyed 
and  tearless  with  horror,  she  watched  the  fire  as  it 
burst  through  the  broken  windows  and  leaped  high 

139  / 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

up  among  the  black  spruce.  In  those  flames  was 
Mukee !  She  screamed,  and  her  father  sprang  to  her 
with  a  strange  cry,  running  with  her  from  the  win 
dow  into  the  little  room  where  she  slept. 

The  next  morning,  when  Cummins  went  to 
awaken  her,  his  face  went  as  white  as  death.  Me- 
lisse  was  not  asleep.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open  and 
staring  at  him,  and  her  soft  cheeks  burned  with  the 
hot  glow  of  fire. 

"You  are  sick,  Melisse,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 
"You  are  sick  r 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  lifted  her 
face  in  his  hands.  The  touch  of  it  sent  a  chill  to  his 
heart — such  as  he  had  not  felt  since  many  years  ago, 
in  that  other  room  a  few  steps  away. 

"I  want  Jan,"  she  pleaded.  "I  want  Jan  to  come 
back  to  me !" 

"I  will  send  for  him,  dear.  He  will  come  back 
soon.  I  will  go  out  and  send  Croisset." 

He  hid  his  face  from  her  as  he  dragged  himself 
away.  Croisset  saw  him  coming,  and  came  out  of 
the  store  to  meet  him.  A  hundred  yards  away  Cum 
mins  stopped. 

140 


A   LONG    WAITING 

"Croisset,  for  the  love  of  God,  take  a  team  and 
go  after  Jan  Thoreau,"  he  called.  "Tell  him  that 
Melisse  is  dying  of  the  plague.  Hurry,  hurry!" 

"Night  and  day!"  shouted  Croisset. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  from  the  cabin  window, 
Cummins  saw  him  start. 

"Jan  will  be  here  very  soon,  Melisse,"  he  said, 
running  his  fingers  gently  through  her  hair. 

It  fell  out  upon  the  pillow  in  thick  brown  waves, 
and  the  sight  of  it  choked  him  with  the  memory  of 
another  vision  which  would  remain  with  him  until 
the  end  of  time.  It  was  her  mother's  hair,  shining 
softly  in  the  dim  light ;  her  mother's  eyes  looked  up 
at  him  as  he  sat  beside  her  through  all  this  long  day. 

Toward  evening  there  came  a  change.  The  fever 
left  the  child's  cheeks.  Her  eyes  closed,  and  she  fell 
asleep.  Through  the  night  Cummins  sat  near  the 
door,  but  in  the  gray  dawn,  overcome  by  his  long 
vigil,  his  head  dropped  upon  his  breast,  and  he 
slumbered. 

When  he  awoke  the  cabin  was  filled  with  light. 
He  heard  a  sound,  and,  startled,  sprang  to  his  feet 
Melisse  was  at  the  stove  building  a  fire ! 

141 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"I'm  better  this  morning,  father.  Why  didn't  you 
sleep  until  breakfast  was  ready?" 

Cummins  stared.  Then  he  gave  a  shout,  made  a 
rush  for  her,  and  catching  her  up  in  his  arms, 
danced  about  the  cabin  like  a  great  bear,  overturn 
ing  the  chairs,  and  allowing  the  room  to  fill  with 
smoke  in  his  wild  joy. 

"It's  what  you  saw  through  the  window  that  made 
you  sick,  Melisse,"  he  cried,  putting  her  down  at 
last.  "I  thought — "  He  paused,  and  added,  his 
voice  trembling:  "I  thought  you  were  going  to  be 
sick  for  more  than  one  day,  my  sweet  little  woman !" 

He  opened  one  of  the  windows  to  let  in  the  fresh 
air  of  the  morning. 

When  Croisset  returned,  he  did  not  find  a  red 
flag  over  Cummins'  cabin;  nor  did  he  bring  word  of 
Jan.  For  three  days  he  had  followed  the  trails  to 
the  south  without  finding  the  boy.  But  he  brought 
back  other  news.  Williams  was  sick  with  the  plague 
in  a  Cree  wigwam  on  the  lower  Porcupine.  It  was 
the  last  they  ever  heard  of  the  factor,  except  that 
he  died  some  time  in  March,  and  was  burned  by  *he 
Crees. 

142 


A   LONG   WAITING 

Croisset  went  back  over  the  Churchill  trail,  and 
found  his  wife  ready  to  greet  him  with  open  arms. 
After  that  he  joined  Per-ee,  who  came  in  from  the 
north,  in  another  search  for  Jan.  They  found 
neither  trace  nor  word  of  him  after  passing  the 
Gray  Otter,  and  Cummins  gave  up  hope. 

It  was  not  for  long  that  their  fears  could  be  kept 
from  Melisse.  This  first  bitter  grief  that  had  come 
into  her  life  fell  upon  her  with  a  force  which 
alarmed  Cummins,  and  cast  him  into  deep  gloom. 
She  no  longer  loved  to  play  with  her  things  in  the 
cabin.  For  days  at  a  time  she  would  not  touch  the 
books  which  Jan  had  brought  from  Churchill,  and 
which  he  had  taught  her  to  read.  She  found  little 
to  interest  her  in  the  things  which  had  been  her  life  a 
few  weeks  before. 

With  growing  despair,  Cummins  saw  his  own 
efforts  fail.  As  the  days  passed  Melisse  mingled 
more  and  more  with  the  Indian  and  half-breed 
children,  and  spent  much  of  her  time  at  the  com 
pany's  store,  listening  to  the  talk  of  the  men,  silent, 
attentive,  unresponsive  to  any  efforts  they  might 
make  to  engage  her  smiles.  From  her  own  heart 

143 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

she  looked  out  upon  a  world  that  had  become  a  void 
for  her.  Jan  had  been  mother,  brother,  and  every 
thing  that  was  tender  and  swe*t  to  her — and  he  was 
gone.  Mukee,  whom  she  had  loved,  was  gone.  Wil 
liams  was  gone.  The  world  was  changed,  terribly 
and  suddenly,  and  it  added  years  to  her  perspective 
of  things. 

Each  day,  as  the  weeks  went  on,  and  the  spring 
sun  began  to  soften  the  snow,  she  became  a  little 
more  like  the  wild  children  at  Lac  Bain  and  in  the 
forest.  For  Jan,  she  had  kept  her  hair  soft  and 
bright,  because  he  praised  her  for  it  and  told  her  it 
was  pretty.  Now  it  hung  in  tangles  down  her  back. 

There  came  a  night  when  she  forgot  her  prayer, 
and  Cummins  did  not  notice  it.  He  failed  to  notice 
it  the  next  night,  and  the  next.  Plunged  deep  in 
his  own  gloom,  he  was  unobservant  of  many  other 
things,  so  that,  in  place  of  laughter  and  joy  and 
merry  rompings,  only  gloomy  and  oppressive  shad 
ows  of  things  that  had  come  and  gone  filled  the  life 
of  the  little  cabin. 

They  were  eating  dinner,  one  day  in  the  early 
spring,  with  the  sunshine  flooding  in  upon  them, 

144 


A   LONG    WAITING 

when  a  quick,  low  footfall  caused  Melisse  to  lift 
her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  open  door.  A  strange 
figure  stood  there,  with  bloodless  face,  staring  eyes, 
and  garments  hanging  in  tatters — but  its  arms 
were  stretched  out,  as  those  same  arms  had  been 
held  out  to  her  a  thousand  times  before,  and,  with 
the  old  glad  cry,  Melisse  darted  with  the  swiftness 
of  a  sun-shadow  beyond  Cummins,  crying : 

"Jan,  Jan — my  Jan !" 

Words  choked  in  Cummins'  throat  when  he  saw 
the  white- faced  figure  clutching  Melisse  to  its  breast. 

At  last  he  gasped  "Jan  •"  ^  threw  out  his  arms, 
so  that  both  were  caught  in  their  embrace. 

For  an  instant  Jan  turned  his  face  up  to  the 
light.  The  other  stared  and  understood. 

"You  have  been  sick,"  he  said,  "but  it  has  left 
no  marks." 

"Thank  God !"  breathed  Jan. 

Melisse  raised  her  head,  and  stroked  his  cheeks 
with  her  two  hands.  That  night  she  remembered 
her  prayer,  and  at  its  end  she  added : 

"Dear  Father  in  Heaven,  thank  you  for  sending 
back  Jan!" 

145 


CHAPTER  XV 

ALMOST   A    WOMAN 

PEACE  followed  in  the  blighted  trails  of  the 
Red  Terror.  Again  the  forest  world  breathed 
without  fear ;  but  from  Hudson's  Bay  to  Athabasca, 
and  as  far  south  as  the  thousand  waters  of  the  Rein 
deer  country,  the  winds  whispered  of  a  terrible  grief 
that  would  remain  until  babes  were  men  and  men 
went  to  their  graves. 

Life  had  been  torn  and  broken  in  a  cataclysm 
more  fearful  than  that  which  levels  cities  and  dis 
rupts  the  earth.  Slowly  it  began  its  readjustment. 
There  was  no  other  life  to  give  aid  or  sympathy; 
and  just  as  they  had  suffered  alone,  so  now  the 
forest  people  struggled  back  into  life  alone,  build 
ing  up  from  the  wreck  of  what  had  been,  the  things 
that  were  to  be. 

For  months  the  Crees  wailed  their  death  dirges 
as  they  sought  out  the  bones  of  their  dead.  Men 

146 


ALMOST   A   WOMAN 

dragged  themselves  into  the  posts,  wifeless  and  child 
less,  leaving  deep  in  the  wilderness  all  that  they 
had  known  to  love  and  give  them  comfort.  Now 
and  then  came  a  woman,  and  around  the  black  scars 
of  burned  cabins  and  teepees  dogs  howled  mourn 
fully  for  masters  that  were  gone. 

The  plague  had  taken  a  thousand  souls,  and  yet 
the  laughing,  dancing  millions  in  that  other  big 
world  beyond  the  edge  of  the  wilderness  caught 
only  a  passing  rumor  of  what  had  happened. 

Lac  Bain  suffered  least  of  the  far  northern  posts, 
with  the  exception  of  Churchill,  where  the  icy  winds 
down-pouring  from  the  Arctic  had  sent  the  Red 
Terror  shivering  to  the  westward.  In  the  late  snows, 
word  came  that  Cummins  was  to  take  Williams' 
place  as  factor,  and  Per-ee  at  once  set  off  for  the 
Fond  du  Lac  to  bring  back  Jean  de  Gravois  as  "chief 
man."  Croisset  gave  up  his  fox-hunting  to  fill 
Mukee's  place. 

The  changes  brought  new  happiness  to  Melisse. 
Croisset's  wife  was  a  good  woman  who  had  spent 
her  girlhood  in  Montreal,  and  lowaka,  now  the 
mother  of  a  fire-eating  little  Jean  and  a  handsome 

147 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

daughter,  was  a  so  ft -voiced  young  Venus  who  had 
grown  sweeter  and  prettier  with  her  years — which 
is  not  usually  the  case  with  half-breed  women. 

"But  it's  good  blood  in  her,  beautiful  blood," 
vaunted  Jean  proudly,  whenever  the  opportunity 
came.  "Her  mother  was  a  princess,  and  her  father 
a  pure  Frenchman,  whose  father's  father  was  a 
chef  de  bataillon.  What  better  than  that,  eh?  I 
say,  what  better  could  there  be  than  that  ?" 

So,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Melisse  dis 
covered  the  joys  of  companionship  with  those  of  her 
own  kind. 

This  new  companionship,  pleasant  as  it  was,  did 
not  come  between  her  and  Jan.  If  anything,  they 
were  more  to  each  other  than  ever.  The  terrible 
months  through  which  they  had  passed  had  changed 
them  both,  and  had  given  them,  according  to  their 
years,  the  fruits  which  are  often  ripened  in  the 
black  gloom  of  disaster  rather  than  in  the  sunshine 
of  prosperity. 

To  Melisse  they  had  opened  up  a  new  world  of 
thought,  a  new  vision  of  the  things  that  existed 
about  her.  The  sternest  teacher  of  all  had  brought 


ALMOST    A   WOMAN 

to  her  the  knowledge  that  comes  of  grief,  of  terror, 
and  of  death,  and  she  had  passed  beyond  her  years, 
just  as  the  cumulative  processes  of  generations  made 
the  Indian  children  pass  beyond  theirs. 

She  no  longer  looked  upon  Jan  as  a  mere  play 
mate,  a  being  whose  diversion  was  to  amuse  and  to 
love  her.  He  had  become  a  man.  In  her  eyes  he 
was  a  hero,  who  had  gone  forth  to  fight  the  death 
of  which  she  still  heard  word  and  whisper  all  about 
her.  Croisset's  wife  and  lowaka  told  her  that  he 
had  done  the  bravest  thing  that  a  man  might  do  on 
earth.  She  spoke  proudly  of  him  to  the  Indian 
children,  who  called  him  the  "torch-bearer."  She 
noticed  that  he  was  as  tall  as  Croisset,  and  taller  by 
half  a  head  than  Jean,  and  that  he  lifted  her  now 
with  one  arm  as  easily  as  if  she  were  no  heavier  than 
a  stick  of  wood. 

Together  they  resumed  their  studies,  devoting 
hours  to  them  each  day,  and  through  all  that  summer 
he  taught  her  to  play  upon  his  violin.  The  warm 
months  were  a  time  of  idleness  at  Lac  Bain,  and 
Jan  made  the  most  of  them  in  his  teaching  of 
Melisse.  She  learned  to  read  the  books  which  he  had 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

used  at  Fort  Churchill,  and  by  midsummer  she  could 
read  those  which  he  had  used  at  York  Factory.  At 
night  they  wrote  letters  to  each  other  and  delivered 
them  across  the  table  in  the  cabin,  while  Cummins 
looked  on  and  smoked,  laughing  happily  at  what 
they  read  aloud  to  him. 

One  night,  late  enough  in  the  season  for  a  fire 
to  be  crackling  merrily  in  the  stove,  Jan  was  read 
ing  one  of  these  letters,  when  Melisse  cried : 

"Stop,  Jan— stop  there!" 

Jan  caught  himself,  and  he  blushed  mightily  when 
he  read  the  next  lines : 

"  'I  think  you  have  beautiful  eyes.    I  love  them/  ' 

"What  is  it  ?"  cried  Cummins  interestedly.  "Read 
on,  Jan." 

"Don't!"  commanded  Melisse,  springing  to  her 
feet  and  running  around  the  table.  "I  didn't  mean 
you  to  read  that !" 

She  snatched  the  paper  from  Jan's  hand  and  threw 
it  into  the  fire. 

Jan's  blood  filled  with  pleasure,  and  at  the  bottom 
of  his  next  letter  he  wrote  back : 

"I  think  you  have  beautiful  hair.    I  love  it." 

150 


ALMOST   A   WOMAN 

That  winter  Jan  was  appointed  post  hunter,  and 
this  gave  him  much  time  at  home,  for  meat  was 
plentiful  along  the  edge  of  the  barrens.  The  two 
continued  at  their  books  until  they  came  to  the  end 
of  what  Jan  knew  in  them.  After  that,  like  search 
ers  in  strange  places,  they  felt  their  way  onward, 
slowly  and  with  caution.  During  the  next  summer 
they  labored  through  all  the  books  which  were  in  the 
little  box  in  the  corner  of  the  cabin. 

It  was  Melisse  who  now  played  most  on  the  vio 
lin,  and  Jan  listened,  his  eyes  glowing  proudly  as  he 
saw  how  cleverly  her  little  fingers  danced  over  the 
strings,  his  face  flushed  with  a  joy  that  was  growing 
stronger  in  him  every  day.  One  day  she  looked 
curiously  into  the  F-hole  of  the  instrument,  and  her 
pretty  mouth  puckered  itself  into  a  round,  red  "O" 
of  astonishment  when  Jan  quickly  snatched  the  vio 
lin  from  her  hands. 

"Excusez-moi,  ma,  belle  Melisse"  he  laughed  at 
her  in  French.  "I  am  going  to  play  you  something 
new!" 

That  same  day  he  took  the  little  cloth-covered  roll 
from  the  violin  and  gave  it  another  hiding-place. 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

It  recalled  to  him  the  strange  spirit  which  had  once 
moved  him  at  Fort  Churchill,  and  which  had  re 
mained  with  him  for  a  time  at  Lac  Bain.  That 
spirit  was  now  gone,  luring  him  no  longer.  Time 
had  drawn  a  softening  veil  over  things  that  had 
passed.  He  was  happy. 

The  wilderness  became  more  beautiful  to  him  as 
Melisse  grew  older.  Each  summer  increased  his 
happiness;  each  succeeding  winter  made  it  larger 
and  more  complete.  Every  fiber  of  his  being  sang 
in  joyful  response  as  he  watched  Melisse  pass  from 
childhood  into  young  girlhood.  He  marked  every 
turn  in  her  development,  the  slightest  change  in  her 
transformation,  as  if  she  had  been  a  beautiful  flower. 

He  possessed  none  of  the  quick  impetuosity  of 
Jean  de  Gravois.  Years  gave  the  silence  of  the 
North  to  his  tongue,  and  his  exultation  was  quiet 
and  deep  in  his  own  heart.  With  an  eagerness  which 
no  one  guessed  he  watched  the  growing  beauty  of 
her  hair,  marked  its  brightening  luster  when  he  saw 
it  falling  in  thick  waves  over  her  shoulders,  and  he 
knew  that  at  last  it  had  come  to  be  like  the  woman's. 
The  changing  lights  in  her  eyes  fascinated  him,  and 

152 


ALMOST   A   WOMAN 

he  rejoiced  again  when  he  saw  that  they  were  deep 
ening  into  the  violet  blue  of  the  bakneesh  flowers 
that  bloomed  on  the  tops  of  the  ridges. 

To  him,  Melisse  was  growing  into  everything  that 
was  beautiful.  She  was  his  world,  his  life,  and  at 
Post  Lac  Bain  there  was  nothing  to  come  between 
the  two.  Jan  noticed  that  in  her  thirteenth  year 
she  could  barely  stand  under  his  outstretched  arm. 
The  next  year  she  had  grown  so  tall  that  she  could 
not  stand  there  at  all.  Very  soon  she  would  be  a 
woman ! 

The  thought  leaped  from  his  heart,  and  he  spoke 
it  aloud.  It  was  on  the  girl's  fifteenth  birthday. 
They  had  come  up  to  the  top  of  the  ridge  on  which 
he  had  fought  the  missionary,  to  gather  red  sprigs 
of  the  bakneesh  for  the  festival  that  they  were  to 
have  in  the  cabin  that  night.  High  up  on  the  face 
of  a  jagged  rock,  Jan  saw  a  bit  of  the  crimson  vine 
thrusting  itself  out  into  the  sun,  and,  with  Melisse 
laughing  and  encouraging  him  from  below,  he 
climbed  up  until  he  had  secured  it.  He  tossed  it 
down  to  her. 

"It's  the  last  one,"  she  cried,  seeing  his  disad- 
153 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

vantage,  "and  I'm  going  home.  You  can't  catch 
me!" 

She  darted  away  swiftly  along  the  snow-covered 
ridge,  taunting  him  with  merry  laughter  as  she  left 
him  clambering  in  cautious  descent  down  the  rock. 
Jan  followed  in  pursuit,  shouting  to  her  in  French, 
in  Cree,  and  in  English,  and  their  two  voices  echoed 
happily  in  their  wild  frolic. 

Jan  slackened  his  steps.  It  was  a  joy  to  see 
Melisse  springing  from  rock  to  rock  and  darting 
across  the  thin  openings  close  ahead  of  him,  her  hair 
loosening  and  sweeping  out  in  the  sun,  her  slender 
figure  fleeing  with  the  lightness  of  the  pale  sun-shad 
ows  that  ran  up  and  down  the  mountain. 

He  would  not  have  overtaken  her  of  his  own 
choosing,  but  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge  Melisse  gave 
up.  She  returned  toward  him,  panting  and  laugh 
ing,  shimmering  like  a  sea-naiad  under  the  glisten 
ing  veil  of  her  disheveled  hair.  Her  face  glowed 
with  excitement ;  her  eyes,  filled  with  the  light  of  the 
sun,  dazzled  Jan  in  their  laughing  defiance.  Before 
her  he  stopped,  and  made  no  effort  to  catch  her. 
Never  had  he  seen  her  so  beautiful,  still  daring  him 

154 


ALMOST   A   WOMAN 

with  her  laugh,  quivering  and  panting,  flinging  back 
her  hair.  Half  reaching  out  his  arms,  he  cried : 

"Melisse,  you  are  beautiful — you  are  almost  a 
woman !" 

The  flush  deepened  in  her  cheeks,  and  there  was 
no  longer  the  sweet,  taunting  mischief  in  her  eyes* 
She  made  no  effort  to  run  from  him  when  he  came 
to  her. 

"Do  you  think  so,  Brother  Jan  ?" 

"If  you  did  your  hair  up  like  the  pictures  we  have 
in  the  books,  you  would  be  a  woman,"  he  answered 
softly.  "You  are  more  beautiful  than  the  pictures !" 

He  drew  a  step  back,  and  her  eyes  flashed  at  him 
again  with  the  sparkle  of  the  old  fun  in  them. 

"You  say  that  I  am  pretty,  and  that  I  am  almost 
a  woman,"  she  pouted.  "And  yet — "  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  at  him  in  mock  disdain.  "Jan  Thor- 
eau,  this  is  the  third  time  in  the  last  week  that  you 
have  not  played  the  game  right !  I  won't  play  with 
you  any  more!" 

In  a  flash  he  was  at  her  side,  her  face  between  his 
two  hands,,  and,  bending  down,  he  kissed  her  upon 
the  mouth. 

155 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

"There,"  she  said,  as  he  released  her.  "Isn't  that 
the  way  we  have  played  it  ever  since  I  can  remem 
ber  ?  Whenever  you  catch  me,  you  may  have  that !" 

"I  am  afraid,  Melisse,"  he  said  seriously.  "You 
are  growing  so  tall  and  so  pretty  that  I  am  afraid." 

"Afraid!  My  brother  afraid  to  kiss  me!  And 
what  will  you  do  when  I  get  to  be  a  woman,  Jan — 
which  will  be  very  soon,  you  say  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Melisse." 

She  turned  her  back  to  him  and  flung  out  her  hair ; 
and  Jan,  who  had  done  this  same  thing  for  her 
a  hundred  times  before,  divided  the  silken  mass  into 
three  strands  and  plaited  them  into  a  braid. 

"I  don't  believe  that  you  care  for  me  as  much  as 
you  used  to,  Jan.  I  wish  I  were  a  woman,  so  that 
I  might  know  if  you  are  going  to  forget  me  en 
tirely!" 

Her  shoulders  trembled ;  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  task,  he  found  that  she  was  laughing,  and  that 
her  eyes  were  swimming  with  a  new  mischief  which 
she  was  trying  to  hide  from  him.  In  that  laugh 
there  was  something  which  was  not  like  Melisse 
Slight  as  the  change  was,  he  noticed  it;  but  instead 

156 


ALMOST    A   WOMAN 

of  displeasing  him,  it  set  a  vague  sensation  of  pleas 
ure  trilling  like  a  new  song  within  him. 

When  they  reached  the  post,  Melisse  went  to  the 
cabin  with  her  bakneesh,  and  Jan  to  the  company's 
store.  Tossing  the  vines  upon  the  table,  Melisse  ran 
back  to  the  door  and  watched  him  until  he  disap 
peared.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  lips  half 
parted  in  excitement;  and  no  sooner  had  he  gone 
from  view  than  she  hurried  to  lowaka's  home  across 
the  clearing. 

It  was  fully  three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  when 
Jan  saw  Melisse,  with  lowaka's  red  shawl  over  her 
head,  walking  slowly  and  with  extreme  precision  of 
step  back  to  the  cabin. 

"I  wonder  if  she  has  the  earache,"  he  said  to 
himself,  watching  her  curiously.  "That  is  lowaka's 
shawl,  and  she  has  it  all  about  her  head." 

"A  clear  half -inch  of  the  rarest  wool  from  Lon 
don,"  added  the  cheery  voice  of  Jean  de  Gravois, 
whose  moccasins  had  made  no  sound  behind  him. 
He  always  spoke  in  French  to  Jan.  "There  is  but 
one  person  in  the  world  who  looks  better  in  it  than 
your  Melisse,  Jan  Thoreau,  and  that  is  lowaka,  my 

157 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

wife.  Blessed  saints,  man,  but  is  she  not  growing 
more  beautiful  every  day?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jan.     "She  will  soon  be  a  woman." 

"A  woman!"  shouted  Jean,  who,  not  having  his 
caribou  whip,  jumped  up  and  down  to  emphasize 
his  words.  "She  will  soon  be  a  woman,  did  you 
say,  Jan  Thoreau?  And  if  she  is  not  a  woman  at 
thirty,  with  two  children — God  send  others  like 
them ! — when  will  she  be,  I  ask  you  ?" 

"I  meant  Melisse,"  laughed  Jan. 

"And  I  meant  lowaka,"  said  Jean.  "Ah,  there  she 
is  now,  come  out  to  see  if  her  Jean  de  Gravois  is 
on  his  way  home  with  the  sugar  for  which  she  sent 
him  something  like  an  hour  ago;  for  you  know 
she  is  chef  de  cuisine  of  this  affair  to-night.  Ah, 
she  sees  me  not,  and  she  turns  back  heartily  disap 
pointed,  I'll  swear  by  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar! 
Did  you  ever  see  a  figure  like  that,  Jan  Thoreau? 
And  did  you  ever  see  hair  that  shines  so,  like  the  top- 
feathers  of  a  raven  who's  nibbling  at  himself  in  the 
hottest  bit  of  sunshine  he  can  find?  Deliver  us, 
but  I'll  go  with  the  sugar  this  minute !" 

The  happy  Jean  hopped  out,  like  a  cricket  over- 

158 


ALMOST   A   WOMAN 

burdened  with  life,  calling  loudly  to  his  wife,  who 
came  to  meet  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  Jan  thrust  his  head  in  at 
their  door,  as  he  was  passing. 

"I  knew  I  should  get  a  beating,  or  something 
worse,  for  forgetting  that  sugar,"  cried  the  little 
Frenchman,  holding  up  his  bared  arms.  "Dough — 
dough — dough — I'm  rolling  dough — dough  for  the 
bread,  dough  for  the  cakes,  dough  for  the  pies 
— dough,  Jan  Thoreau,  just  common  flour  and  water 
mixed  and  swabbed — I,  Jean  de  Gravois,  chief  man 
at  Post  Lac  Bain,  am  mixing  dough!  She  is  as 
beautiful  as  an  angel  and  sweeter  than  sugar — my 
lowaka,  I  mean;  but  there  is  more  flesh  in  her 
earthly  tabernacle  than  in  mine,  so  I  am  compelled 
to  mix  this  dough,  mon  ami.  lowaka,  my  dear,  tell 
Jan  what  you  were  telling  me,  about  Melisse  and — " 

"Hush!"  cried  lowaka  in  her  sweet  Cree.  "That 
is  for  Jan  to  find  out  for  himself." 

"So — so  it  is,"  exclaimed  the  irrepressible  Jean, 
plunging  himself  to  the  elbows  in  his  pan  of  dough. 
"Then  hurry  to  the  cabin,  Jan,  and  see  what  sort 
of  a  birthday  gift  Melisse  has  got  for  you," 

159 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BIRTHDAYS 

THE  big  room  was  empty  when  Jan  camt 
quietly  through  the  open  door.  He  stopped  tc 
listen,  and  caught  a  faint  laugh  from  the  other  room, 
and  then  another;  and  to  give  warning  of  his  pres 
ence,  he  coughed  loudly  and  scraped  a  chair  along 
the  floor.  A  moment's  silence  followed.  The  far 
ther  door  opened  a  little,  and  then  it  opened  wide, 
and  Melisse  came  out. 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  me,  brother  Jan  ?" 
She  stood  in  the  light  of  the  window  through 
which  came  the  afternoon  sun,  her  hair  piled  in 
glistening  coils  upon  the  crown  of  her  head, 
as  they  had  seen  them  in  the  pictures,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  eyes  glowing  questioningly  at  Jan. 

"Do  I  look — as  you  thought — I  would,  Jan?"  she 
persisted,  a  little  doubtful  at  his  silence.    She  turned, 

160 


BIRTHDAYS 

so  that  he  saw  the  cluster  of  soft  curls  that  fell  upon 
her  shoulder,  with  sprigs  of  bakneesh  half  smoth 
ered  in  them.  "Do  I?" 

"You  are  prettier  than  I  have  ever  seen  you, 
Melisse,"  he  replied  softly. 

There  was  a  seriousness  in  his  voice  that  made  her 
come  to  him  in  her  old  impulsive,  half-childish  way. 
She  lifted  her  hands  and  rested  them  on  his  shoul 
ders,  as  she  had  always  done  when  inviting  him  to 
toss  her  above  his  head. 

"If  I  am  prettier — and  you  like  me  this  way — 
why  don't  you — " 

She  finished  with  a  sweet,  upturned  pouting  of 
her  mouth,  and,  with  a  sudden,  laughing  cry,  Jan 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  lips  she  held 
up  to  him.  It  was  but  an  instant,  and  he  freed  her, 
a  hot  blush  burning  in  his  brown  cheeks. 

"My  dear  brother!"  she  laughed  at  him,  gather 
ing  up  the  bakneesh  on  the  table.  "I  love  to  have 
you  kiss  me,  and  now  I  have  to  make  you  do  it. 
Father  kisses  me  every  morning  when  he  goes  to  the 
store.  I  remember  when  you  used  to  kiss  me  every 
time  you  came  home,  but  now  you  forget  to  do  it 

161 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

at  all.     Do  brothers  love  their  sisters  less  as  they 
grow  older?" 

"Sometimes  they  love  the  sister  less  and  the  other 
girl  more,  ma  belle  Melisse,"  came  a  quick  voice 
from  the  door,  and  Jean  de  Gravois  bounded  in 
like  a  playful  cat,  scraping  and  bowing  before 
Melisse  until  his  head  nearly  touched  the  floor. 
"Lovely  saints,  Jan  Thoreau,  but  she  is  a  woman, 
just  as  my  lowaka  told  me!  And  the  cakes — the 
bread — the  pies!  You  must  delay  the  supper  my 
lady,  for  the  good  Lord  deliver  me  if  I  haven't 
spilled  all  the  dough  on  the  floor!  Swas-s-s-s-h — 
such  a  mess !  And  my  lowaka  did  nothing  but  laugh 
and  call  me  a  clumsy  dear!" 

"You're  terribly  in  love,  Jean,"  cried  Melisse, 
laughing  until  her  eyes  were  wet ;  "just  like  some  of 
the  people  in  the  books  which  Jan  and  I  read." 

"And  I  always  shall  be,  my  dear,  so  long  as  the 
daughter  of  a  princess  and  the  great-granddaughter 
of  a  chef  de  bataillon  allows  me  to  mix  her  dough !" 

Melisse  flung  the  red  shawl  over  her  head,  still 
laughing. 

"I  will  go  and  help  her,  Jean." 
162 


BIRTHDAYS 

"Mon  Dieu!"  gasped  Gravois,  looking  searchingly 
at  Jan,  when  she  had  left.  "Shall  I  give  you  my  best 
wishes,  Jan  Thoreau?  Does  it  signify?" 

"Signify— what?" 

The  little  Frenchman's  eyes  snapped. 

"Why,  when  our  pretty  Cree  maiden  becomes  en 
gaged,  she  put*  up  her  hair  for  the  first  time,  that  is 
all,  my  dear  Jan.  When  I  asked  my  blessed  lowaka 
to  be  my  wife,  she  answered  by  running  away  from 
me,  taunting  me  until  I  thought  my  heart  had 
shriveled  into  a  bit  of  salt  blubber;  but  she  came 
back  to  me  before  I  had  completely  died,  with  her 
braids  done  up  on  the  top  of  her  head !" 

He  stopped  suddenly,  startled  into  silence  by  the 
strange  look  that  had  come  into  the  other's  face. 
For  a  full  minute  Jan  stood  as  if  the  power  of  move 
ment  had  gone  from  him.  He  was  staring  over  the 
Frenchman's  head,  a  ghastly  pallor  growing  in  his 
cheeks. 

"No — it — means — nothing,"  he  said  finally,  speak 
ing  as  if  the  words  were  forced  from  him  one  by 
one. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  the  table  *ike  one 

163 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

whose  senses  had  been  dulled  by  an  unexpected  blow. 
With  a  great  sighing  breath  that  was  almost  a  sob, 
he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  arms. 

"Jan  Thoreau,"  whispered  Jean  softly,  "have  you 
forgotten  that  it  was  I  who  killed  the  missioner  for 
you,  and  that  through  all  of  these  years  Jean  de 
Gravois  has  never  questioned  you  about  the  fight  on 
the  mountain  top?"  There  was  in  his  voice,  as 
gentle  as  a  woman's,  the  vibrant  note  of  a  comrade 
ship  which  is  next  to  love — the  comradeship  of  man 
for  man  in  a  world  where  friendship  is  neither 
bought  nor  sold.  "Have  you  forgotten,  Jan  Tho 
reau?  If  there  is  anything  Jean  de  Gravois  can  do?" 

He  sat  down  opposite  Jan,  his  thin,  eager  face 
propped  in  his  hands,  and  watched  silently  until  the 
other  lifted  his  head.  Their  eyes  met,  steady,  un 
flinching,  and  in  that  look  there  were  the  oath  and 
the  seal  of  all  that  the  honor  of  the  big  snows  held 
for  those  two. 

Still  without  words,  Jan  reached  within  his  breast 
and  drew  forth  the  little  roll  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  violin.  One  by  one  he  handed  the  pages 
over  to  Jean  de  Gravois. 

164 


BIRTHDAYS 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  Jean,  when  he  had  finished 
reading.  He  spoke  no  other  words.  White- faced, 
the  two  men  stared,  Jan's  throat  twitching,  Gravois' 
brown  ringers  crushing  the  rolls  he  held. 

"That  was  why  I  tried  to  kill  the  missioner,"  said 
Jan  at  last.  He  pointed  to  the  more  coarsely  written 
pages  under  Jean's  hand.  "And  that — that — is  why 
it  could  not  signify  that  Melisse  has  done  up  her 
hair."  He)  rose  to  his  feet,  straining  to  keep  his 
voice  even,  and  gathered  up  the  papers  so  that  they 
shot  back  into  the  little  cylinder-shaped  roll  again. 
"Now  do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand,"  replied  Jean  in  a  low  voice,  but 
his  eyes  glittered  like  dancing  dragon-flies  as  he 
raised  his  elbows  slowly  from  the  table  and 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head.  "I  understand, 
Jan  Thoreau,  and  I  praise  the  blessed  Virgin  that 
it  was  Jean  de  Gravois  who  killed  the  missioner  out 
upon  the  ice  of  Lac  Bain !" 

"But  the  other,"  persisted  Jan,  "the  other,  which 
says  that  I — " 

"Stop !"  cried  Jean  sharply.  He  came  around  the 
table  and  seized  Jan's  hands  in  the  iron  grip  of  his 

165 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

lithe,  brown  fingers.  "That  is  something  for  you 
to  forget.  It  means  nothing — nothing  at  all,  Jan 
Thoreau!  Does  any  one  know  but  you  and  me?" 

"No  one.  I  intended  that  some  day  Melisse  and 
her  father  should  know;  but  I  waited  too  long.  I 
waited  until  I  was  afraid,  until  the  horror  of  telling 
her  frightened  me.  I  made  myself  forget,  burying 
it  deeper  each  year,  until  to-day — on  the  moun 
tain—" 

"And  to-day,  in  this  cabin,  you  will  forget  again, 
and  you  will  bury  it  so  deep  that  it  will  never  come 
back.  I  am  proud  of  you,  Jan  Thoreau.  I  love  you, 
and  it  is  the  first  time  that  Jean  de  Gravois  has  ever 
said  this  to  a  man.  Ah,  I  hear  them  coming!" 

With  an  absurd  bow  in  the  direction  of  the  laugh 
ing  voices  which  they  now  heard,  the  melodramatic 
little  Frenchman  pulled  Jan  to  the  door.  Half-way 
across  the  open  were  Melisse  and  lowaka,  carrying 
a  large  Indian  basket  between  them,  and  making 
merry  over  the  task.  When  they  saw  Gravois  and 
Jan,  they  set  down  their  burden  and  waved  an  in 
vitation  for  the  two  men  to  come  to  their  assistance. 

"You  should  be  the  second  happiest  man  in  the 
1 66 


BIRTHDAYS 

world,  Jan  Thoreau,"  exclaimed  Jean.  "The  first 
is  Jean  de  Gravois!" 

He  set  off  like  a  bolt  from  a  spring-gun  in  the 
direction  of  the  two  who  were  waiting  for  them. 
He  had  hoisted  the  basket  upon  his  shoulder  by  the 
time  Jan  arrived. 

"Are  you  growing  old,  too,  Jan?"  bantered 
Melisse,  as  she  dropped  a  few  steps  behind  Jean  and 
his  wife.  "You  come  so  slowly !" 

"I  think  I'm  twenty-nine." 

"You  think!"  Her  dancing  eyes  shot  up  to  his, 
bubbling  over  with  the  mischief  which  she  had  been 
finable  to  suppress  that  day.  "Why,  Jan — " 

He  had  never  spoken  to  Melisse  as  he  did  now. 

"I  was  born  some  time  in  the  winter,  Melisse — 
like  you.  Perhaps  it  was  yesterday,  perhaps  it  is 
to-morrow.  That  is  all  I  know." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  the  grief  which  he  was 
fighting  to  keep  back  tightening  the  muscles  about 
his  mouth. 

Like  the  quick  passing  of  sunshine,  the  fun  swept 
from  her  face,  leaving  her  blue  eyes  staring  up  at 
him,  filled  with  a  pain  which  he  had  never  seen  in 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

them  before.  In  a  moment  he  knew  that  she  haft; 
-understood  him,  and  he  could  have  cut  out  his 
tongue.  Her  hand  reached  his  arm,  and  she  stopped 
him,  her  face  lifted  pleadingly,  the  tears  slowly 
gathering  in  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  whispered,  her  voice  break 
ing  into  a  sob.  "Dear,  dear  Jan,  forgive  me !"  She 
caught  one  of  his  hands  in  both  her  own,  and  for  an 
instant  held  it  so  that  he  could  feel  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart.  "To-day  is  your  birthday,  Jan — 
yours  and  mine,  mine  and  yours — and  we  will  al 
ways  have  it  that  way — always — won't  we,  Jan?" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   RENUNCIATION 

JAN  was  glad  wl^en  the  evening  came,  and  was 
gone.  Not  until  Jean  and  lowaka  had  said 
good  night  with  Croisset  and  his  wife,  and  both 
Cummins  and  Melisse  had  gone  to  their  rooms,  did 
he  find  himself  relieved  of  the  tension  under  which 
he  had  struggled  during  all  of  that  night's  merry 
making  in  the  cabin. 

From  the  first  he  knew  that  his  nerves  were  strung 
by  some  strange  and  indefinable  sensation  that  was 
growing  within  him — something  which  he  could 
hardly  have  explained  at  first,  but  which  swiftly 
took  form  and  meaning,  and  oppressed  him  more  as 
the  hours  flew  by.  Almost  fiercely  he  strove  to 
fight  back  the  signs  of  it  from  his  face  and  voice. 
Never  had  he  played  as  on  this  night.  His  violin 
leaped  with  life,  his  voice  rose  high  in  the  wild 
forest  songs  of  Jean  de  Gravois  and  Croisset,  he 

169 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

sprang  aloft  in  the  caribou  dance  until  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  touched  the  log  beams  overhead ;  and  yet 
there  was  none  of  the  flush  of  excitement  in  his  face, 
no  joyous  fire  flashing  from  his  eyes  upon  Melisse. 

She  saw  this,  and  wondered.  A  dozen  times  her 
eyes  encountered  his,  straight  and  questioning,  when 
the  others  were  not  looking.  She  saw  in  response 
only  a  dull,  lusterless  glow  that  was  not  like  the  Jan 
who  had  pursued  her  that  day  on  the  mountain-top. 

Jan  was  unaware  of  what  was  lacking  in  him.  He 
smiled  when  she  gave  him  these  glances ;  deep  down 
in  him  his  heart  trembled  at  the  beauty  of  her  flushed 
cheeks,  the  luster  of  her  coiled  hair,  the  swimming 
depths  of  her  clear  eyes;  but  the  mask  of  the  thing 
at  which  she  wondered  still  remained. 

After  the  others  had  gone,  Cummins  sat  up  to 
smoke  a  pipe.  When  he  had  finished,  he  went  to 
his  room.  Jan  was  now  sleeping  in  a  room  at  the 
company's  store,  and  after  a  time  he  rose  silently 
to  take  down  his  cap  and  coat.  He  opened  the  outei 
door  quietly,  so  as  not  to  arouse  Melisse,  who  had 
gone  to  bed  half  an  hour  before, 

170 


THE   RENUNCIATION 

As  he  was  about  to  go  out,  there  came  a  sound — 
a  low,  gentle,  whispered  word. 

"Jan!" 

He  turned.  Melisse  stood  in  her  door.  She  had 
not  undressed,  and  her  hair  was  still  done  up  in  its 
soft  coils,  with  the  crimson  bakneesh  shining  in  it. 
She  came  to  him  hesitatingly,  until  she  stood  with 
her  two  hands  upon  his  arm,  gazing  into  his  tense 
face  with  that  same  question  in  her  eyes. 

"Jan,  you  were  not  pleased  with  me  to-night," 
she  whispered.  "Tell  me,  why?" 

"I  was  pleased  with  you,  Melisse,"  he  replied. 

He  took  one  of  the  hands  that  was  clinging  to 
his  arm,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  open  night. 
Countless  stars  gleamed  in  the  sky,  as  they  had  shone 
on  another  night  fifteen  years  ago.  From  where 
they  stood  they  saw  the  pale  flicker  of  the  aurora, 
sending  its  shivering  arrows  out  over  the  dome  of 
the  earth,  with  the  same  lonely  song  that  it  had 
played  when  the  woman  died.  Gaunt  and  solitary, 
the  tall  spruce  loomed  up  against  the  silver  glow, 
its  thick  head  sighing  faintly  in  the  night  wind,  as 

171 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

if  in  wailing  answer  to  that  far-away  music  in  the 
skies. 

Suddenly  there  leaped  up  from  Jan  Thoreau's 
breast  a  breath  that  burst  from  his  lips  in  a  low 
cry. 

"Melisse,  Melisse,  it  was  just  fifteen  years  ago 
that  I  came  in  through  that  forest  out  there,  starved 
and  dying,  and  played  my  violin  when  your  mother 
died.  You  were  a  little  baby  then,  and  since  that 
night  you  have  never  pleased  me  more  than  now !" 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  squarely  to  th« 
door,  to  hide  what  he  knew  had  come  into  his  face. 
He  heard  a  soft,  heart-broken  little  sob  behind  him, 
and  something  fell  rustling  upon  his  arm. 

"Jan,  dear  Jan!" 

Melisse  crowded  herself  into  his  arms,  her  hail 
torn  down  and  tumbling  about  her  shoulders.  In 
her  eyes  there  were  the  old  pride  and  the  old  love, 
the  love  and  pride  of  what  seemed  to  Jan  to  be,  years 
ago,  the  old,  childish  pleading  for  his  comradeship, 
for  the  fun  of  his  strong  arms,  the  frolic  of  his 
laugh.  Irresistibly  they  called  to  him,  and  in  the 
old  glad  way  he  tightened  his  arms  about  her  shoul- 

172 


THE   RENUNCIATION 

ders,  his  eyes  glowing,  and  life  leaping  back,  flushed 
and  full,  into  his  face. 

She  laughed,  happy  and  trembling,  her  lips  held 
up  to  him. 

"I  didn't  please  you  to-day,"  she  whispered.  "I 
will  never  do  up  my  hair  again !" 

He  kissed  her,  and  his  arms  dropped  from  her 
shoulders. 

"Never,  never  again — until  you  have  forgotten  to 
love  me,"  she  repeated.  "Good  night,  Brother  Jan !" 

Across  the  open,  through  the  thinned  edge  of 
the  black  spruce,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  cold, 
unquivering  lifelessness  of  the  forest,  Jan  went 
from  the  door  that  closed  between  him  and  Melisse, 
her  last  words  still  whispering  in  his  ears,  the  warm 
touch  of  her  hair  on  his  cheeks — and  the  knowledge 
of  what  this  day  had  meant  for  him  swiftly  surging 
upon  him,  bringing  with  it  a  torment  which  racked 

him  to  the  soul. 

• 

Fifteen  years  ago!  He  stopped  and  looked  up, 
the  starlight  whitening  his  face.  There  was  no 
change  in  this  night  from  that  other  one  of  ages 
and  ages  ago.  There  were  the  same  stars,  like  fierce 

173 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

eyes  of  pale  fire,  robbed  of  softness  by  the  polar 
cold ;  there  were  the  same  cloudless  blue  space,  the 
same  hissing  flashes  of  the  aurora  leaping  through 
its  infinity,  the  same  trees  that  had  listened  to  his 
moaning  prayers  on  that  night  when  he  had  stag 
gered  into  Lac  Bain. 

He  went  on  until  he  came  to  where  the  beaten 
trail  swept  up  and  away  from  a  swamp.  As  vividly 
as  if  it  had  happened  but  yesterday,  he  remembered 
how  he  had  dragged  himself  through  this  swamp, 
bleeding  and  starving,  his  violin  clutched  io  his 
breast,  guided  by  the  barking  of  dogs,  which  seemed 
to  come  from  a  million  miles  away.  He  plunged 
into  it  now,  picking  his  tangled  way  until  he  stood 
upon  a  giant  ridge,  from  which  he  looked  out 
through  the  white  night  into  the  limitless  barrens  to 
the  north. 

Along  the  edge  of  those  barrens  he  had  come, 
daring  the  hundred  deaths  between  hunter's  cabin 
and  Indian  wigwam,  starving  at  times,  almost  dying 
of  cold,  building  fires  to  keep  the  wolves  back,  and 
playing — always  playing  to  keep  up  his  courage, 
until  he  found  Melisse.  Fifteen  years  had  passed 

174 


THE   RENUNCIATION 

since  then,  and  the  cumulative  force  of  the  things 
that  had  grown  out  of  those  years  had  fallen  upon 
him  this  day.  He  had  felt  it  first  when  Melisse 
turned  upon  him  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain;  and 
after  that  in  the  cabin,  in  every  breath  he  drew,  in 
every  look  that  he  gave  her.  For  him  she  had 
changed  for  all  time.  She  was  no  longer  the  little 
Melisse,  his  sister.  And  yet — 

He  was  almost  saying  her  last  words  aloud : 

"Good  night,  Brother  Jan!" 

She  had  come  to  him  that  day  to  let  him  kiss  her, 
as  she  had  come  to  him  a  thousand  times  before ;  but 
he  had  not  kissed  her  in  the  old  way.  It  was  a  dif 
ferent  love  that  his  lips  had  given,  and  even  now  the 
hot  blood  surged  again  into  his  face  as  he  thought 
of  what  he  had  done.  His  was  a  different  idea  of 
honor  from  that  held  by  men  born  to  the  ways  of 
passion. 

In  that  which  had  stirred  his  blood,  thrilling 
him  with  strange  joy  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms, 
he  saw  more  than  the  shadow  of  sin — sacrilege 
against  a  thing  which  was  more  precious  to  him  than 
life.  Melisse  came  to  him  still  as  his  sister,  abiding 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

in  her  glorious  faith  in  him,  unaware  of  his  tempta 
tion;  while  he,  Jan  Thoreau — 

He  thrust  a  hand  inside  his  coat  and  clutched  at 
the  papers  that  Jean  de  Gravois  had  read.  Then 
he  drew  them  forth,  slowly,  and  held  them  crumpled 
in  his  fingers,  while  for  many  minutes  he  stared 
straight  out  into  the  gray  gloom  of  the  treeless 
plain. 

His  eyes  shifted.  Searchingly  they  traveled  up 
the  face  of  the  crags  behind  him.  They  hunted 
where  the  starlight  made  deep  pits  of  gloom  in 
the  twisting  edge  of  the  mountains.  They  went 
from  rock  to  rock  and  from  tree  to  tree  until  at  last 
they  rested  upon  a  giant  spruce  which  hung  out  over 
the  precipitous  wall  of  the  ridge,  its  thick  top  beck 
oning  and  sighing  to  the  black  rocks  that  shot  up 
out  of  the  snow  five  hundred  feet  below. 

It  was  a  strange  tree,  weird  and  black,  free  of 
stub  or  bough  for  a  hundred  feet,  and  from  far 
out  on  the  barrens  those  who  traveled  their  solitary 
ways  east  and  west  knew  that  it  was  a  monument 
shaped  by  men.  Mukee  had  told  Jan  its  story.  In 
the  first  autumn  of  the  woman's  life  at  Lac  Bain,  he 


THE   RENUNCIATION 

and  Per-ee  had  climbed  the  old  spruce,  lopping  off 
its  branches  until  only  the  black  cap  remained ;  and 
after  that  it  was  known  far  and  wide  as  the  "lob- 
stick''  of  Cummins'  wife.  It  was  a  voiceless  ceno 
taph  which  signified  that  all  the  honor  and  love 
known  to  the  wilderness  people  had  been  given  to 
her. 

To  it  went  Jan,  the  papers  still  held  in  his  hand. 
He  had  seen  a  pair  of  whisky-jacks  storing  food  in 
the  butt  of  the  tree,  two  or  three  summers  before, 
and  now  his  fingers  groped  for  the  hole.  When  he 
found  it,  he  thrust  in  the  papers,  crowded  them 
down,  and  filled  the  hole  with  chunks  of  bark. 

"Always  my  sister — and  never  anything  more  to 
Jan  Thoreau,"  he  said  gently  in  French,  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  a  spirit  in  the  old  tree.  "That  is 
the  honor  of  these  snows ;  it  is  what  the  great  God 
means  us  to  be."  The  strife  had  gone  from  his 
voice;  it  rose  strong  and  clear  as  he  stretched  his 
arms  high  up  along  the  shorn  side  of  the  spruce,  his 
eyes  upon  the  silent  plume  that  heard  his  oath.  "I 
swear  that  Jan  Thoreau  will  never  do  wrong  to  the 
little  Melisse!" 

177 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

With  a  face  white  and  set  in  its  determination,  he 
turned  slowly  away  from  the  tree.  Far  away,  from 
the  lonely  depths  of  the  swamp,  there  came  the  wail 
ing  howl  of  a  wolf — a  cry  of  hunger ful  savageness 
that  died  away  in  echoes  of  infinite  sadness.  It  was 
like  the  howling  of  a  dog  at  the  door  of  a  cabin 
in  which  his  master  lay  dead,  and  the  sound  of  it 
swept  a  flood  of  loneliness  into  Jan's  heart.  It  was 
the  death- wail  of  his  own  last  hope,  which  had  gone 
out  of  him  for  ever  that  night. 

He  listened,  and  it  came  again ;  but  in  the  middle 
of  it,  when  the  long,  moaning  grief  of  the  voice  was 
rising  to  its  full  despair,  there  broke  in  a  sharp  inter 
ruption — a  shrieking,  yelping  cry,  such  as  a  dog 
makes  when  it  is  suddenly  struck.  In  another  mo 
ment  the  forest  thrilled  with  the  deep-throated  pack- 
call  of  the  wolf  who  has  started  a  fresh  kill.  Hardly 
had  its  echoes  died  away  when,  from  deeper  in  the 
swamp,  there  came  another  cry,  and  still  another 
from  the  mountain ;  and  up  and  out  of  the  desolation 
rose  the  calls  of  others  of  the  scattered  pack,  in 
quick  response  to  the  comrade  who  had  first  found 
meat. 


THE   RENUNCIATION 

All  the  cries  were  alike,  filled  with  that  first  wail 
ing  grief,  except  that  of  the  swelling  throat 
which  was  sending  forth  the  call  to  food.  A  few 
minutes,  and  another  of  the  mournful  howls 
changed  into  the  fierce  hunt-cry;  then  a  second,  a 
third,  and  a  fourth,  and  the  sound  of  the  chase  swept 
swiftly  from  the  swamp  to  the  mountain,  up  the 
mountain  and  down  into  the  barrens. 

"A  caribou!"  cried  Jan  softly.  "A  caribou,  and 
he  is  going  into  the  barrens.  There  is  no  water,  and 
he  is  lost !" 

He  ran  and  leaned  over  beside  the  old  tree,  so 
that  the  great  plain  stretched  out  below  him.  Into 
the  west  turned  the  pack,  the  hunt-cry  growing 
fainter  until  it  almost  died  away.  Then,  slowly,  it 
grew  again  in  volume,  swinging  into  the  north,  then 
to  the  east- — approaching  nearer  and  nearer  until 
Jan  saw  a  dark,  swiftly  moving  blot  in  the  white 
gloom. 

The  caribou  passed  by  within  half  a  rifle-shot 
of  him;  another  half  rifle-shot  behind  followed  the 
wolves,  flung  out  fan-shape,  their  gray  bodies  mov 
ing  like  specters  in  a  half -moon  cordon,  and  their 

179 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

leaders  almost  abreast  the  caribou  a  dozen  rods  to 
each  side. 

There  was  no  sound  now.  Below  him,  Jan  could 
see  the  pale  glimmer  of  ice  and  snow,  where  in  sum 
mer  there  was  a  small  lake.  Desperately  the  cari 
bou  made  an  effort  to  reach  this  lake.  The  wolves 
drew  in.  The  moon-shape  of  their  bodies  shrunk 
until  it  was  nearer  a  circle.  From  the  plain  side 
the  leading  wolf  closed  until  he  was  running  at  the 
caribou's  forelegs.  The  mountain  wolf  responded 
on  the  opposite  side.  Then  came  the  end,  quick,  de 
cisive,  and  without  sound. 

After  a  few  moments  there  came  faintly  the 
snapping  of  jaws  and  the  crunching  of  bones.  Torn 
and  bleeding,  and  yet  quivering  with  life,  the  cari 
bou  was  given  up  to  the  feast. 

Jan  turned  away  from  the  scene.  Torn  and 
bleeding  at  his  own  heart,  he  went  back  to  Lac  Bain. 


1 80 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BROTHER   JAN 

WHEN  he  came  into  the  cabin  for  breakfast 
that  morning,  Jan's  face  showed  signs  of  the 
struggle  through  which  he  had  gone.  Cummins  had 
already  finished,  and  he  found  Melisse  alone.  Her 
hair  was  brushed  back  in  its  old,  smooth  way;  and 
when  she  heard  him,  she  flung  her  long  braid  over 
her  shoulder,  so  that  it  fell  down  in  front  of  her. 
He  saw  the  movement,  and  smiled  his  thanks  with 
out  speaking. 

"You  don't  look  well,  Jan,"  she  said  anxiously, 
"You  are  pale,  and  your  eyes  are  bloodshot." 

"I  am  not  feeling  right,"  he  admitted,  trying  to 
appear  cheerful,  "but  this  coffee  will  make  a  new 
man  of  me.  You  make  the  best  coffee  in  the  world, 
Melisse?" 

"How  do  you  know,  brother?"  she  asked.  "Have 
181 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

you  drunk  any  other  than  mine  since  years  ago  at 
Churchill  and  York  Factory?" 

"Only  lowaka's.  But  I  know  that  yours  is  best, 
from  what  I  remember  of  the  coffee  at  the  bay." 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago,  wasn't  it?"  she  asked 
gently,  looking  at  him  across  the  table.  "I  dreamed 
of  those  days  last  night,  Jan,  though  I  don't  remem 
ber  anything  about  your  going  to  Churchill.  I  must 
have  been  too  young;  but  I  remember  when  you 
went  to  Nelson  House,  and  how  lonely  I  was.  Last 
night  I  dreamed  that  we  both  went,  and  that  we 
stood  together,  looking  out  over  the  bay,  where  the 
tides  are  washing  away  the  guncase  coffins.  I  saw 
the  ship  that  you  described  to  me,  too,  and  thought 
that  we  wanted  to  go  out  to  it,  but  couldn't.  Do 
you  suppose  we'll  ever  go  to  Churchill  together, 
Jan,  and  ride  on  a  wonderful  ship  like  that  ?" 

"It  may  be,  Melisse." 

"And  then  I  dreamed  that  you  were  gone,  and  I 
was  alone;  and  some  one  else  came  to  me,  whom 
I  didn't  like  at  all,  and  tried  to  make  me  go  to  the 
ship.  Wasn't  that  strange?"  She  laughed  softly, 
as  she  rose  to  give  him  another  cup  of  coffee.  "What 

182 


BROTHER   JAN 

did  you  mean,  Jan  Thoreau,  by  running  away  from 
me  like  that?" 

"To  get  even  with  you  for  running  away  from  me 
on  the  mountain,"  he  replied  quickly. 

She  paused,  the  cup  half  filled,  and  Jan,  looking 
up,  caught  her  eyes  full  of  mock  astonishment. 

"And  were  you  sorry  I  ran  away  from  you?" 

Despite  himself,  his  pale  cheeks  flushed. 

"Do  you  think  I  was  ?"  he  replied  equivocally. 

"I — don't — know,"  she  answered  slowly,  filling 
his  cup.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day,  Jan?" 

"Drive  out  on  the  Churchill  trail.  Ledoq  wants 
supplies,  and  he's  too  busy  with  his  trap-lines  to 
come  in." 

"Will  you  take  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Melisse.  It's  a  twelve-mile  run 
and  a  heavy  load." 

"Very  well.     I'll  get  ready  immediately." 

She  jumped  up  from  the  table,  darting  fun  at  him 
with  her  eyes,  and  ran  to  her  room. 

"It's  too  far,  Melisse,"  he  called  after  her.  "It's 
too  far,  and  I've  a  heavy  load — " 

"Didn't  I  take  that  twenty-mile  run  with  you  over 

183 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

to —  Oh,  dear !  Jan,  have  you  seen  my  new  lynx-skin 
cap?" 

"It's  out  here,  hanging  on  the  wall/'  replied  Jan, 
falling  into  her  humor  despite  himself.  "But  I 
say,  Melisse — " 

"Are  the  dogs  ready?"  she  called.  "If  they're 
not,  I'll  be  dressed  before  you  can  harness  them, 
Jan." 

"They'll  be  here  within  fifteen  minutes,"  he  re 
plied,  surrendering  to  her. 

Her  merry  face,  laughing  triumph  at  him  through 
the  partly  open  door,  destroyed  the  last  vestige  of  his 
opposition,  and  he  left  her  with  something  of  his  old 
cheeriness  of  manner,  whistling  a  gay  forest  tune  as 
he  hurried  toward  the  store. 

When  he  returned  with  the  team,  Melisse  was 
waiting  for  him,  a  gray  thing  of  silvery  lynx  fur, 
with  her  cheeks,  lips  and  eyes  aglow,  her  trim 
little  feet  clad  in  soft  caribou  boots  that  came  to  her 
knees,  and  with  a  bunch  of  the  brilliant  bakneesh 
fastened  jauntily  in  her  cap. 

"I've  made  room  for  you,"  he  said  in  greeting, 
pointing  to  the  sledge. 

184 


BROTHER   JAN 

"Which  I'm  not  going  to  fill  for  five  miles,  at 
least,"  declared  Melisse.  "Isn't  it  a  glorious  morn 
ing,  Jan?  I  feel  as  if  I  can  run  from  here  to 
Ledoq's!" 

With  a  crack  of  his  whip  and  a  shout,  Jan  swung 
the  dogs  across  the  open,  with  Melisse  running 
lightly  at  his  side.  From  their  cabin  Jean  and 
lowaka  called  out  shrill  adieus. 

"The  day  is  not  far  off  when  they  two  will  be  as 
you  and  I,  my  lowaka,"  said  Jean  in  his  poetic  Cree. 
"I  wager  you  that  it  will  be  before  her  next  birth 
day!" 

./ind  Melisse  was  saying: 

"I  wonder  if  there  are  many  people  as  happy  as 
Jean  and  lowaka!" 

She  caught  her  breath,  and  Jan  cracked  on  the 
dogs  in  a  spurt  that  left  her  panting,  a  full  dozen 
rods  behind  him.  With  a  wild  halloo  he  stopped  the 
team,  and  waited. 

"That's  unfair,  Jan!  You'll  have  to  put  me  on 
the  sledge." 

He  tucked  her  in  among  the  furs,  and  the  dogs 
strained  at  their  traces,  with  Jan's  whip  curling  and 

185 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

snapping  over  their  backs,  until  they  were  leaping 
swiftly  and  with  unbroken  rhythm  of  motion  over 
the  smooth  trail.  Then  Jan  gathered  in  his  whip  and 
ran  close  to  the  leader,  his  moccasined  feet  taking 
the  short,  quick,  light  steps  of  the  trained  forest 
runner,  his  chest  thrown  a  little  out,  his  eyes  upon 
the  twisting  trail  ahead. 

It  was  a  glorious  ride,  and  Melisse's  eyes  danced 
with  joy.  Her  blood  thrilled  to  the  tireless  effort  of 
the  grayish-yellow  pack  of  magnificent  brutes  ahead 
of  her.  She  watched  the  muscular  play  of  their 
backs  and  legs,  the  eager  outreaching  of  their  wolf 
ish  heads,  and  their  half -gaping  jaws — and  from 
them  she  looked  to  Jan.  There  was  no  effort  in  his 
running.  His  pale  cheeks  were  flushed,  his  black  hair 
swept  back  from  the  gray  of  his  cap,  gleaming  in  the 
sun.  Like  the  dogs,  there  was  music  in  his  move 
ment,  there  was  the  beauty  of  strength,  of  endurance, 
of  manhood  born  to  the  forests.  Her  eyes  shone 
proudly;  the  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
looked  at  him,  wondering  if  there  was  another  man 
in  the  world  like  Jan  Thoreau. 

Mile  after  mile  slipped  behind,  and  not  until  they 
186 


BROTHER   JAN 

reached  the  mountain  on  which  he  had  fought  the 
missionary  did  Jan  bring  his  dogs  to  a  walk.  Mfc- 
lisse  jumped  from  the  sledge  and  ran  quickly  to  his 
side. 

"I  can  beat  you  to  the  top  now!"  she  cried.  "If 
you  catch  me — "  There  was  the  old  witching  chal 
lenge  in  her  eyes. 

She  sped  up  the  side  of  the  ridge.  Panting  and 
breathless,  Jan  pursued  with  the  dogs.  Her  advan 
tage  was  too  great  for  him  to  overcome  this  time, 
and  she  stood  laughing  down  at  him  when  he  came 
to  the  top  of  the  ridge. 

"You're  as  pretty  as  a  fairy,  Melisse!"  he  ex 
claimed,  his  eyes  shining  with  admiration.  "Pret 
tier  than  the  fairy  in  the  book !" 

"Thank  you,  brother!  The  one  with  golden 
hair?" 

"Yes,  all  of  them." 

(  "I  can't  imagine  how  a  girl  would  look  with 
golden  hair;  can  you,  Jan?"  Before  he  could  an 
swer  she  added  mischievously:  "Did  you  see  any 
fairies  at  Churchill  or  York  Factory  ?" 

"None  that  could  compare  with  you,  Melisse/' 

187 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

"Thank  you  again,  brother  mine !  I  believe  you 
do  still  love  me  a  little." 

"More  than  ever  in  my  life,"  replied  Jan  quickly, 
though  he  tried  to  hold  his  tongue. 

As  they  went  on  to  Ledoq's,  he  found  that  the  joy- 
ousness  of  the  morning  was  giving  way  again  to  the 
old  gloom  and  heartache.  Brother  Jan,  Brother 
Jan,  Brother  Jan !  The  words  pounded  themselves 
incessantly  in  his  brain  until  they  seemed  to  keep 
time  with  his  steps  beside  the  sledge.  They  drove 
him  back  into  his  thoughts  of  the  preceding  night, 
and  he  felt  a  sense  of  relief  when  they  reached  the 
trapper's. 

Ledoq  was  stripping  the  hair-fat  from  a  fox-skin 
when  the  team  pulled  up  in  front  of  his  cabin. 
When  he  saw  the  daughter  of  the  factor  at  Lac  Bain 
with  Jan,  he  jumped  briskly  to  his  feet,  flung  his 
cap  through  the  door  of  the  shack,  and  began  bow 
ing  and  scraping  to  her  with  all  his  might.  It  was 
well  known  in  the  province  of  Lac  Bain  that  many 
years  before  Jean  de  Gravois  had  lost  a  little  broth 
er,  who  had  disappeared  one  day  in  the  woods ;  and 
there  were  those  who  hinted  that  Ledoq  was  that 

1 88 


BROTHER   JAN 

brother,  for  Jean  and  he  were  as  like  as  two  peas  in 
the  ready  use  of  their  tongues,  and  were  of  the  same 
build  and  the  same  briskness. 

Melisse  laughed  merrily  as  Ledoq  continued  to 
bow  before  her,  rattling  away  in  a  delighted  torrent 
of  French. 

"Ah,  thes  ees  wan  gr-r-reat  compleeman,  M'selle 
Melisse,"  he  finished  at  last,  breaking  for  an  instant 
into  English.  He  straightened  like  a  spring  and 
turned  to  Jan.  "Did  you  meet  the  strange  team?" 

"We  met  no  team." 

Ledoq  looked  puzzled.  Half  a  mile  away,  the  top 
of  a  snow-covered  ridge  was  visible  from  the  cabin. 
He  pointed  to  it. 

"An  hour  ago  I  saw  it  going  westward  along  the 
mountain — three  men  and  six  dogs.  Whom  have 
you  out  from  Lac  Bain?" 

"No  one,"  replied  Jan.  "It  must  have  been  the 
new  agent  from  Churchill.  We  expect  him  early 
this  winter.  Shall  we  hurry  back,  Melisse,  and  see 
if  he  has  brought  our  books  and  violin-strings?" 

"You  must  have  dinner  with  me,"  objected  Ledoq. 

Jan  caught  a  quick  signal  from  Melisse. 
189 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

"Not  to-day,  Ledoq.  It's  early,  and  we  have  a 
lunch  for  the  trail.  What  do  you  say,  Melisse  ?" 

"If  you're  not  tired,  Jan." 

"Tired!" 

He  tossed  the  last  package  from  the  sledge  and 
cracked  his  long  whip  over  the  dogs'  backs  as  they 
both  cried  out  their  farewell  to  the  little  Frenchman. 

"Tired !"  he  repeated,  running  close  beside  her  as 
the  team  swung  lightly  back  into  the  trail,  and 
laughing  down  into  her  face.  "How  could  I  ever 
get  tired  with  you  watching  me  run,  Melisse  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  did — just  a  little,  Jan. 
Isn't  there  room  for  two?" 

She  gave  a  coquettish  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders, 
and  Jan  leaped  upon  the  moving  sledge,  kneeling 
close  behind  her. 

"Always,  always,  I  have  to  ask  you !"  she  pouted. 
"You  needn't  get  too  near,  you  know,  if  you  don't 
want  to !" 

The  old,  sweet  challenge  in  her  voice  was  irresisti 
ble,  and  for  a  moment  Jan  felt  himself  surrendering 
to  it.  He  leaned  forward  until  his  chin  was  buried  in 
the  silken  lynx  fur  of  her  coat,  and  for  a  single 

IQO 


BROTHER   JAN 

breath  he  felt  the  soft  touch  of  her  cheek  against  hi 
own.  Then  he  gave  a  sudden  shout  to  the  dogs — 54, 
loud  that  it  startled  her — and  his  whip  writhed  and 
snapped  twenty  feet  above  their  heads,  like  a  thing 
rilled  with  life. 

He  sprang  from  the  sledge  and  again  ran  with 
the  team,  urging  them  on  faster  and  faster  until  they 
dropped  into  a  panting  walk  when  they  came  to  the 
ridge  along  which  Ledoq,  two  hours  before,  had 
seen  the  strangers  hurrying  toward  Lac  Bain. 

"Stop!'*  cried  Melisse,  taking  this  first  opportu 
nity  to  scramble  from  the  sledge.  "You're  cruel  to 
the  dogs,  Jan!  Look  at  their  jaws — see  them  pant! 
Jan  Thoreau,  I've  never  seen  you  drive  like  that 
since  the  night  we  were  chased  in  from  the  barrens 
by  the  wolves !" 

"And  did  you  ever  see  me  run  any  faster?"  He 
struggled,  dropping  exhausted  upon  the  sledge.  "I 
remember  only  one  other  time." 

He  took  a  long  breath,  flinging  back  his  arms  to 
bring  greater  volume  of  air  into  his  lungs. 

"Wasn't  that  the  night  we  heard  the  wolves  howl 
ing  behind  us  ?"  Melisse  asked. 

191 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

""No,  it  was  many  years  ago,  when  1  heard,  far  to 
the  south,  that  my  little  Melisse  was  dying  of  the 
plague." 

Melisse  sat  down  upon  the  sledge  beside  him  with 
out  speaking,  and  nestled  one  of  her  hands  a  little 
timidly  in  one  of  his  big,  brown  palms. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Jan." 

"That  was  all— I  ran." 

"You  wouldn't  run  as  fast  for  me  now,  would 
you?" 

He  looked  at  her  boldly,  and  saw  that  there  was 
not  half  of  the  brilliant  flush  in  her  cheeks. 

"I  ran  for  you,  just  now — and  you  didn't  like  it," 
he  replied. 

"I  don't  mean  that."  She  looked  up  at  him,  and 
her  fingers  tightened  round  his  own.  "Away  back 
— years  and  years  and  years  ago,  Jan — you  went  out 
to  fight  the  plague,  and  nearly  died  in  it,  for  me. 
Would  you  do  that  much  again  ?" 

"I  would  do  more,  Meiisse." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  her  eyes  searching 
him  as  if  in  quest  of  something  in  his  face  which 
she  scarce  believed  in  his  words.  Slowly  he  rose  to 

192 


BROTHER   JAN 

his  feet,  lifting  her  with  him;  and  when  he  had  done 
this  he  took  her  face  between  his  two  hands  and 
Sooked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Some  day  I  will  do  a  great  deal  more  for  you 
tf.an  that,  Melisse,  and  then — " 

"What?"  she  questioned,  as  he  hesitated. 

"Then  you  will  know  whether  I  love  you  as  much 
iiow  as  I  did  years  and  years  and  years  ago,"  he  fin 
ished,  gently  repeating  her  words. 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  held  Me 
lisse  silent  as  he  turned  to  straighten  out  the  dogs; 
wit  when  he  came  back,  making  her  comfortable  on 
the  sledge,  she  whispered : 

"I  wish  you  would  do  it  soon,  Brother  Jan !" 


193 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    NEW    AGENT   AND    HIS    SON 

THEY  did  not  lunch  on  the  trail,  but  drove  into 
the  post  in  time  for  dinner.  Jean  de  Gravois 
and  Croisset  came  forth  from  the  store  to  meet 
them. 

"You  have  company,  my  dear!"  cried  Jean  to  Me- 
lisse.  "Two  gentlemen  fresh  from  London  on  the 
last  boat,  and  one  of  them  younger  and  handsomer 
than  your  own  Jan  Thoreau.  They  are  waiting  for 
you  in  the  cabin,  where  mon  pere  is  getting  them 
dinner,  and  telling  them  how  beautifully  you  would 
have  made  the  coffee  if  you  were  there." 

"Two !"  said  Jan,  as  Melisse  left  them.  "Who 
are  they?" 

"The  new  agent,  M.  Timothy  Dixon,  as  red  as  the 
plague,  and  fatter  than  a  spawning  fish!  And  his 
son,  who  has  come  along  for  fun,  he  says ;  and  I  be 
lieve  he  will  get  what  he's  after  if  he  remains  here 

194 


THE   NEW   AGENT   AND   HIS    SON 

very  long,  Jan  Thoreau,  for  he  looked  a  little  too 
boldly  at  my  lowaka  when  she  came  into  the  store 
just  now !" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  laughed  Jan,  as  Gravois  took  in  the 
four  quarters  of  the  earth  with  a  terrible  gesture. 
"Can  you  blame  him,  Jean?  I  tell  you  that  I  look 
at  lowaka  whenever  I  get  the  chance !" 

"Is  she  not  worth  it?"  cried  Jean  in  rapture. 
"You  are  welcome  to  every  look  that  you  can  get, 
Jan  Thoreau.  But  the  foreigner — I  will  skin  him 
alive  and  spit  him  with  devil-thorn  if  he  so  much  as 
peeps  at  her  out  of  the  wrong  way  of  his  eye !" 

Croisset  spoke. 

"There  was  once  a  foreigner  who  came.  You  re 
member?" 

"I  remember,"  said  Jan. 

He  looked  to  the  white  cross  which  marked  Mu- 
kee's  grave  in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  the 
shadow  of  the  big  spruce  fell  across  it  at  the  end  of 
summer  evenings. 

"And — he — died,"  said  Jean  de  Gravois,  his  dark 
hands  clenched.  "God  forgive  me,  but  I  hate  these 
red-necked  men  from  across  the  sea." 

195 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

Croisset  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Breeders  of  two-legged  carrion-eaters!"  he  ex 
claimed  fiercely.  "La  charogne!  There  are  two  at 
Nelson  House,  and  two  on  the  Wholdaia,  and 
one—" 

A  sharp  cry  fell  from  Jan's  lips.  When  Croisset 
whirled  toward  him,  he  stood  among  his  dogs,  as 
white  as  death,  his  black  eyes  blazing  as  if  just  be 
yond  him  he  saw  something  which  rilled  him  with 
terror. 

As  the  man  turned,  startled  by  the  look,  Jean 
sprang  to  his  side. 

"Saints  preserve  us,  but  that  was  an  ugly  twist  of 
the  hand !"  he  cried  shrilly.  "Next  time,  turn  your 
sledge  by  the  rib  instead  of  the  nose,  when  your  dogs 
are  still  in  the  traces !"  Under  his  breath  he  whis 
pered,  as  he  made  pretense  of  looking  at  Jan's  hand : 
"Le  diable,  do  you  want  to  tell  him?" 

Jan  tried  to  laugh  as  Croisset  came  to  see  what 
had  happened. 

"Will  you  care  for  the  dogs,  Henri  ?"  asked  Jean. 
"It's  only  a  trifling  sprain  of  the  wrist,  which 
lowaka  can  cure  with  one  dose  of  her  liniment." 


THE    NEW   AGENT    AND    HIS    SON 

As  they  walked  away,  Jan's  face  still  as  pallid  as 
the  gray  snow  under  their  feet,  Gravois  added: 
"You're  a  fool,  Jan  Thoreau.  There's  a  crowd  at 
your  cabin,  and  you'll  have  dinner  with  me/' 

"La  charogne!"  muttered  Jan.  "Les  betes  de 
charogne !" 

Jean  gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  tell  you  that  it  means  nothing — nothing!"  he 
said,  repeating  his  words  of  the  previous  day  in  the 
cabin.  "You  are  a  man.  You  must  fight  it  down, 
and  forget.  No  one  knows  but  you  and  me." 

"You  will  never  tell  what  you  read  in  the  papers  ?" 
cried  Jan  quickly.  "You  swear  it  ?" 

"By  the  blessed  Virgin,  I  swear  it !" 

"Then,"  said  Jan  softly,  "Melisse  will  never 
know!" 

"Never,"  said  Jean.  His  dark  face  flashed  joy 
ously  as  lowaka's  sweet  voice  came  to  them,  singing 
a  Cree  lullaby  in  the  little  home.  "Some  day  Me 
lisse  will  be  singing  that  same  way  over  there ;  and 
it  will  be  for  you,  Jan  Thoreau,  as  my  lowaka  is 
now  singing  for  me !" 

An  hour  later  Jan  went  slowly  across  the  open  to 
197 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

Cummins'  cabin.  As  he  paused  for  an  instant  at  the 
door  he  heard  a  laugh  that  was  strange  to  him,  and 
when  he  opened  it  to  enter  he  stood  perplexed  and 
undecided.  Melisse  had  risen  from  the  table  at  the 
sound  of  his  approach,  and  his  eyes  quickly  passed 
from  her  flushed  face  to  the  young  man  who  was 
sitting  opposite  her.  He  caught  a  nervous  tremble 
in  her  voice  when  she  said : 
,  "Mr.  Dixon,  this  is  my  brother,  Jan." 

The  stranger  jumped  to  his  feet  and  held  out  a 
hand. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Cummins." 

"Thoreau,"  corrected  Jan  quietly,  as  he  took  the 
extended  hand.  "Jan  Thoreau." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought — "  He 
turned  inquiringly  to  Melisse.  The  flush  deepened 
in  her  cheeks  as  she  began  to  gather  up  the  dishes. 

"We  are  of  no  relation,"  continued  Jan,  some 
thing  impelling  him  to  speak  the  words  with  cool 
precision.  "Only  we  have  lived  under  the  same  roof 
since  she  was  a  baby,  and  so  we  have  come  to  be  like 
brother  and  sister." 

"Miss  Melisse  has  been  telling  me  about  your 
198 


THE   NEW   AGENT   AND   HIS    SON 

wonderful  run  this  morning,"  exclaimed  the  young 
Englishman,  his  face  reddening  slightly  as  he  de 
tected  the  girl's  embarrassment.  "I  wish  I  had  seen 
it!" 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  it  very  soon,"  replied  Jan, 
caught  by  the  frankness  of  the  other's  manner. 
"Our  nmners  will  be  going  out  among  the  trappers 
within  a  fortnight." 

"And  will  they  take  me?" 

"You  may  go  with  me,  if  you  can  run.  I  leave 
the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Thanks,"  said  Dixon,  moving  toward  the  door. 

Melisse  did  not  lift  her  head  as  he  went  out. 
Faintly  she  said  : 

"I've  kept  your  dinner  for  you,  Jan.  Why  didn't 
you  come  sooner?" 

"I  had  dinner  with  Gravois,"  he  replied.  "Jean 
said  that  you  would  hardly  be  prepared  for  five,  Me 
lisse,  so  I  accepted  his  invitation." 

He  took  down  from  the  wall  a  fur  sledge-coat,  in 
which  Melisse  had  mended  a  rent  a  day  or  two  be 
fore,  and,  throwing  it  over  his  arm,  turned  to  leave. 

"Jan!" 

199 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

He  faced  her  slowly,  knowing  that  in  spite  of  him 
self  there  was  a  strangeness  in  his  manner  which 
she  would  not  understand. 

"Why  are  you  going  away  the  day  after  to-mor 
row — two  weeks  before  the  others?  You  didn't 
tell  me." 

"I'm  going  a  hundred  miles  into  the  South,"  he 
answered. 

"Over  the  Nelson  House  trail  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh !"  Her  lips  curled  slightly  as  she  looked  at 
him.  Then  she  laughed,  and  a  bright  spot  leaped 
into  either  cheek.  "I  understand,  brother,"  she  said 
softly.  "Pardon  me  for  questioning  you  so.  I  had 
forgotten  that  the  MacVeigh  girl  lives  on  the  Nelson 
trail.  lowaka  says  that  she  is  as  sweet  as  a  wild 
flower.  I  wish  you  would  have  her  come  up  and 
visit  us  some  time,  Jan." 

Jan's  face  went  red,  then  white,  but  Melisse  saw 
only  the  first  effect  of  her  random  shot,  and  was 
briskly  gathering  up  the  dishes. 

"I  turn  off  into  the  Cree  Lake  country  before  I 
reach  MacVeighs'."  he  was  on  the  point  of  saying; 

200 


THE   NEW   AGENT   AND   HIS    SON 

but  the  words  hung  upon  his  lips,  and  he  remained 
silent. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  talking  with  Jean  de 
Gravois.  The  little  Frenchman's  face  was  omi 
nously  dark,  and  he  puffed  furiously  upon  his  pipe 
when  Jan  told  him  why  he  was  leaving  at  once  for 
the  South. 

"Running  away !"  he  repeated  for  the  tenth  time 
in  French,  his  thin  lips  curling  in  a  sneer.  "I  am 
sorry  that  I  gave  you  my  oath,  Jan  Thoreau,  else  I 
would  go  myself  and  tell  Melisse  what  I  read  in  the 
papers.  Pish!  Why  can't  you  forget?" 

"I  may — some  day,"  said  Jan.  "That  is  why  I 
am  going  into  the  South  two  weeks  early,  and  I  shall 
be  gone  until  after  the  big  roast.  If  I  remain  here 
another  week,  I  shall  tell  Melisse,  and  then — " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  despairingly. 

"And  then— what?" 

"I  should  go  away  for  ever." 

Jean  snapped  his  fingers  with  a  low  laugh. 

"Then  remain  another  week,  Jan  Thoreau,  and  if 
it  turns  out  as  you  say,  I  swear  I  will  abandon  my 
two  lowakas  and  little  Jean  to  the  wolves !" 

201 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"I  am  going  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

The  next  morning  lowaka  complained  to  Melisse 
that  Gravois  was  as  surly  as  a  bear. 

"A  wonderful  change  has  come  over  him,"  she 
said.  "He  does  nothing  but  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
say  'Le  diable!'  and  The  fool!'  Last  night  I  could 
hardly  sleep  because  of  his  growling.  I  wonder  what 
bad  spirit  has  come  into  my  Jean  ?" 

Melisse  was  wondering  the  same  of  Jan.  She  saw 
little  of  him  during  the  day.  At  noon,  Dixon  told 
her  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  accompany 
Thoreau  on  the  trip  south. 

The  following  morning,  before  she  was  up,  Jan 
had  gone.  She  was  deeply  hurt.  Never  before  had 
he  left  on  one  of  his  long  trips  without  spending  his 
last  moments  with  her.  She  had  purposely  told  her 
father  to  entertain  the  agent  and  his  son  at  the  store 
that  evening,  so  that  Jan  might  have  an  opportunity 
of  bidding  her  good-by  alone. 

Outside  of  her  thoughts  of  Jan,  the  days  and 
evenings  that  followed  were  pleasant  ones  for  her. 
The  new  agent  was  as  jolly  as  he  was  fat,  and  took 
an  immense  liking  to  Melisse.  Young  Dixon  was 

202 


THE   NEW   AGENT   AND   HIS    SON 

good-looking  and  brimming  with  life,  and  spent  a 
great  deal  of  his  time  in  her  company.  For  hours  at 
a  time  she  listened  to  his  stories  of  the  wonderful 
world  across  the  sea.  As  MacDonald  had  described 
that  life  to  Jan  at  Fort  Churchill,  so  he  told  of  it  to 
Melisse,  filling  her  with  visions  of  great  cities,  paint 
ing  picture  after  picture,  until  her  imagination  was 
riot  with  the  beauty  and  the  marvel  of  it  all,  and  she 
listened,  with  flaming  cheeks  and  glowing  eyes. 

One  day,  a  week  after  Jan  had  gone,  he  told  her 
about  the  women  in  the  world  which  had  come  to  be 
a  fairy-land  to  Melisse. 

"They  are  all  beautiful  over  there?"  she  asked 
wonderingly,  when  he  had  finished. 

"Many  of  them  are  beautiful,  but  none  so  beauti 
ful  as  you,  Melisse,"  he  replied,  leaning  near  to  her, 
his  eyes  shining.  "Do  you  know  that  you  are  beau 
tiful?" 

His  words  frightened  her  so  much  that  she  bowed 
her  head  to  hide  the  signs  of  it  in  her  face.  Jan  had 
often  spoken  those  same  words — a  thousand  times 
he  had  told  her  that  she  was  beautiful — but  there 
had  never  been  this  fluttering  of  her  heart  before. 

203 


THE    HONOR    OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

There  were  few  things  which  lowaka  and  she  did 
not  hold  in  secret  between  them,  and  a  day  or  two 
later  Melisse  told  her  friend  what  Dixon  had  said. 
For  the  first  time  lowaka  abused  the  confidence 
placed  in  her,  and  told  Jean. 

"Le  diable!"  gritted  Jean,  his  face  blackening. 

He  said  no  more  until  night,  when  the  children 
were  asleep.  Then  he  drew  lowaka  close  beside  him 
on  a  bench  near  the  stove,  and  asked  carelessly : 

"Mon  ange,  if  one  makes  an  oath  to  the  blessed 
Virgin,  and  breaks  it,  what  happens  ?" 

He  evaded  the  startled  look  in  his  wife's  big  black 
eyes. 

"It  means  that  one  will  be  for  ever  damned  unless 
he  confesses  to  a  priest  soon  after,  doesn't  it  ma 
cherief  And  if  there  is  no  priest  nearer  than  four 
hundred  miles,  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  do,  is  it 
not  ?  But — "  He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  "If 
one  might  have  the  oath  broken,  and  not  do  it  him 
self,  what  then?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  lowaka  simply,  staring  at 
him  in  amazed  questioning. 

204 


THE    NEW   AGENT    AND    HIS    SON 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Jean,  lighting  his  pipe.  "But 
there  is  enough  of  the  devil  in  Jean  de  Gravois  to 
make  him  break  a  thousand  oaths  if  it  was  for  you, 
my  lowaka !" 

Her  eyes  glowed  upon  him  softly. 

"A  maiden's  soul  leaves  her  body  when  she  be 
comes  the  wife  of  the  man  she  loves,"  she  whispered 
tenderly  in  Cree,  resting  her  dark  head  on  Jean's 
shoulder.  "That  is  what  my  people  believe,  Jean> 
and  if  I  have  given  my  soul  to  you,  why  should  I  not 
break  oath  for  you  ?" 

"For  me  alone,  lowaka?" 

'Tor  you  alone." 

"And  not  for  a  friend  ?" 

"For  no  one  else  in  the  world,  Jean.  You  are  the 
only  one  to  whom  the  god  of  my  people  bids  me 
make  all  sacrifice." 

"But  you  do  not  believe  in  that  god,  lowaka !" 

"Sometimes  it  is  better  to  believe  in  the  god  of 
my  people  than  in  yours,"  she  replied  gently.  "I  be 
lieved  in  him  fifteen  years  ago  at  Churchill.  Do  you 
wish  me  to  take  back  what  I  gave  to  you  then  ?" 

205 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

With  a  low  cry  of  happiness  Jean  crushed  his  face 
against  her  soft  cheek. 

"Believe  in  him  always,  my  lowaka,  and  Jean  de 
Gravois  will  cut  the  throat  of  any  missioner  who 
says  you  will  not  go  to  Paradise!  But — this  other. 
You  are  sure  that  you  would  break  oath  for  none 
but  me?" 

"And  the  children.  They  are  a  part  of  you,  Jean." 

A  fierce  snarling  and  barking  of  dogs  brought 
Gravois  to  the  door.  They  could  hear  Croisset's 
raucous  voice  and  the  loud  cracking  of  his  big  whip. 

"I'll  be  back  soon,"  said  Jean,  closing  the  door 
after  him;  but  instead  of  approaching  Croisset  and 
the  fighting  dogs  he  went  in  the  direction  of  Cum 
mins'  cabin.  "Devil  take  an  oath!"  he  growled 
under  his  breath.  "Neither  one  God  nor  the  other 
will  let  me  break  it,  and  lowaka  least  of  all !"  He 
gritted  his  teeth  as  young  Dixon's  laugh  sounded 
loudly  in  the  cabin.  "Two  fools !"  he  went  on  com 
muning  with  himself.  "Cummins — Jan  Thoreau — 
both  fools!" 


206 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    KISS   AND   THE    CONSEQUENCES 

DURING  the  week  that  followed,  Jean's  little 
black  eyes  were  never  far  distant  from  Cum 
mins'  cabin.  Without  being  observed,  he  watched 
Melisse  and  Dixon,  and  not  even  to  lowaka  did  he 
give  hint  of  his  growing  suspicions.  Dixon  was  a 
man  whom  most  other  men  liked.  There  were  a  fas 
cinating  frankness  in  his  voice  and  manner,  strength 
in  his  broad  shoulders,  and  a  general  air  of  com 
radeship  about  him  which  won  all  but  Jean. 

The  trap-line  runners  began  leaving  the  post  at 
the  end  of  the  second  week,  and  after  this  Melisse 
and  the  young  Englishman  were  more  together  than 
ever.  Dixon  showed  no  inclination  to  accompany; 
the  sledges,  and  when  they  were  gone  he  and  Melisse 
began  taking  walks  in  the  forest,  when  the  sun  was 
high  and  warm. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  days  that  Jean  had  gone 
207 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

along  the  edge  of  the  caribou  swamp  that  lay  be 
tween  the  barrens  and  the  higher  forest.  As  he 
stopped  to  examine  a  fresh  lynx  trail  that  cut  across 
the  path  beaten  down  by  dog  and  sledge,  he  heard 
the  sound  of  voices  ahead  of  him;  and  a  moment 
later  he  recognized  them  as  those  of  Melisse  and 
Dixon.  His  face  clouded,  and  his  eyes  snapped  fire, 

"Ah,  if  I  was  only  Jan  Thoreau — a  Jan  Thoreau 
with  the  heart  of  Jean  de  Gravois — what  a  surprise 
I'd  give  that  foreigner !"  he  said  to  himself,  leaping 
quickly  from  the  trail  into  the  thicket. 

He  peered  forth  from  the  bushes,  his  loyal  heart 
beating  a  wrathful  tattoo  when  he  saw  that  Dixon 
dared  put  his  hand  on  Melisse's  arm.  They  were 
coming  very  slowly,  the  Englishman  bending  low 
over  the  girl's  bowed  head,  talking  to  her  with 
strange  earnestness.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  be 
fore  Jean  could  comprehend  what  had  happened  he 
had  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

With  a  low  cry,  Melisse  tore  herself  free.  For  an 
instant  she  faced  Dixon,  who  stood  laughing  into  her 
blazing  eyes.  Then  she  turned  and  ran  swiftly  down 
the  trail. 

208 


A   KISS   AND   THE   CONSEQUENCES 

A  second  cry  fell  from  her  startled  lips  when  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  Jean  de  Gravois. 
The  little  Frenchman  was  smiling.  His  eyes  glittered 
like  black  diamonds. 

"Jean,  Jean !"  she  sobbed,  running  to  him. 

"He  has  insulted  you,"  he  said  softly,  smiling 
into  her  white  face.  "Run  along  to  the  post,  ma  belle 
Melisse." 

He  watched  her,  half  turned  from  the  astonished 
Englishman,  until  she  disappeared  in  a  twist  of  the 
trail  a  hundred  yards  away.  Then  he  faced  Dixon. 

"It  is  the  first  time  that  our  Melisse  has  ever  suf 
fered  insult,"  he  said,  speaking  as  coolly  as  if  to  a 
child.  "If  Jan  Thoreau  were  here,  he  would  kill 
you.  He  is  gone,  and  I  will  kill  you  in  his  place !" 

He  advanced,  his  white  teeth  still  gleaming  in  a 
smile,  and  not  until  he  launched  himself  like  a  cat 
at  Dixon's  throat  was  the  Englishman  convinced 
that  he  meant  attack.  In  a  flash  Dixon  stepped  a 
little  to  one  side,  and  sent  out  a  crashing  blow  that 
caught  Jean  on  the  side  of  the  head  and  sent  him 
flat  upon  his  back  in  the  trail. 

Half  stunned,  Gravois  came  to  his  feet.  He  did 
209 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

not  hear  the  shrill  cry  of  terror  from  the  twist  in  the 
trail.  He  did  not  look  back  to  see  Melisse  standing 
there.  But  Dixon  both  saw  and  heard,  and  he 
laughed  tauntingly  over  Jean's  head  as  the  little 
Frenchman  came  toward  him  again,  more  cautiously 
than  before. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Jean  had  ever  come  into 
contact  with  science.  He  darted  in  again,  in  his 
quick,  cat-like  way,  and  received  a  blow  that  dazed 
him.  This  time  he  held  to  his  feet. 

"Bah,  this  is  like  striking  a  baby!"  exclaimed 
Dixon.  "What  are  you  fighting  about,  Gravois?  Is 
it  a  crime  up  here  to  kiss  a  pretty  girl  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  kill  you !"  said  Jean  as  coolly  as 
before. 

There  was  something  terribly  calm  and  decisive 
in  his  voice.  He  was  not  excited.  He  was  not  afraid. 
His  fingers  did  not  go  near  the  long  knife  in  his 
belt.  Slowly  the  laugh  faded  from  Dixon's  face,  and 
tense  lines  gathered  around  his  mouth  as  Jean  cir 
cled  about  him. 

"Come,  we  don't  want  trouble  like  this,"  he  urged. 
"I'm  sorry— if  Melisse  didn't  like  it." 

210 


A   KISS   AND    THE   CONSEQUENCES 

"I  am  going  to  kill  you !"  repeated  Jean. 

There  was  an  appalling  confidence  in  his  eyes. 
From  those  eyes  Dixon  found  himself  retreating 
rather  than  from  the  man.  They  followed  him, 
never  taking  themselves  from  his  face.  The  fire  in 
them  grew  deeper.  Two  dull  red  spots  began  to  glow 
in  Jean's  cheeks,  and  he  laughed  softly  when  he  sud 
denly  leaped  in  so  that  the  Englishman  struck  at  him 
— and  missed. 

It  was  the  science  of  the  forest  man  pitted  against 
that  of  another  world.  For  sport  Jean  had  played 
with  wounded  lynx;  his  was  the  quickness  of  sight, 
of  instinct — without  the  other's  science;  the  quick 
ness  of  the  great  loon  that  had  often  played  this 
same  game  with  his  rifle-fire,  of  the  sledge-dog 
whose  ripping  fangs  carried  death  so  quickly  that 
eyes  could  not  follow. 

A  third  and  a  fourth  time  he  came  within  strik 
ing  distance,  and  escaped.  He  half  drew  his  knife, 
and  at  the  movement  Dixon  sprang  back  until  his 
shoulders  touched  the  brush.  Smilingly  Gravois  un 
sheathed  the  blade  and  tossed  it  behind  him  in  the 
trail.  His  eyes  were  like  a  serpent's  in  their  steadi- 

211 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

ness,  and  the  muscles  of  his  body  were  drawn  as 
tight  as  steel  springs,  ready  to  loose  themselves 
when  the  chance  came. 

There  were  tricks  in  his  fighting  as  well  as  in  the 
other's,  and  a  dawning  of  it  began  to  grow  upon 
Dixon.  He  dropped  his  arms  to  his  side,  inviting 
Jean  within  reach.  Suddenly  the  little  Frenchman 
straightened.  His  glittering  eyes  shot  from  the  Eng 
lishman's  face  to  the  brush  behind  him,  and  a  pierc 
ing  yell  burst  from  his  lips.  Involuntarily  Dixon 
started,  half  turning  his  face,  and  before  he  had 
come  to  his  guard  Gravois  flung  himself  under  his 
arms,  striking  with  the  full  force  of  his  body  against 
his  antagonist's  knees. 

Together  they  went  down  in  the  trail.  There  was 
only  one  science  now — that  of  the  forest  man.  The 
lithe,  brown  fingers,  that  could  have  crushed  the  life 
of  a  lynx,  fastened  themselves  around  the  English 
man's  throat,  and  there  came  one  gasping,  quickly 
throttled  cry  as  they  tightened  in  their  neck-breaking 

grip. 

"I  will  kill  you !"  said  Jean  again. 

Dixon's  arms  fell  limply  to  his  side.    His  eyes 

212 


A    KISS    AND    THE   CONSEQUENCES 

bulged  from  their  sockets,  his  mouth  was  agape,  but 
Jean  did  not  see.  His  face  was  buried  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  the  whole  life  of  him  in  the  grip.  He 
would  not  have  raised  his  head  for  a  full  minute 
longer  had  there  not  come  a  sudden  interruption — 
the  terrified  voice  of  Melisse,  the  frantic  tearing  of 
her  hands  at  his  hands. 

"He  is  dead!"  she  shrieked.  "You  have  killed 
him,  Jean !" 

He  loosed  his  ringers  and  sat  up.  Melisse  stag 
gered  back,  clutching  with  her  hands  at  her  breast, 
her  face  as  white  as  the  snow. 

"You  have  killed  him !" 

Jean  looked  into  Dixon's  eyes. 

"He  is  not  dead,"  he  said,  rising  and  going  to  her 
side.  "Come,  ma  chere,  run  home  to  lowaka.  I  will 
not  kill  him."  Her  slender  form  shook  with  agon 
ized  sobs  as  he  led  her  to  the  turn  in  the  trail  "Run 
home  to  lowaka/'  he  repeated  gently.  "I  will  not 
kill  him,  Melisse." 

He  went  back  to  Dixon  and  rubbed  snow  over  the 
man's  face. 

"Mon  Dieu,  but  it  was  near  to  it !""  he  exclaimed, 
213 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

as  there  came  a  flicker  of  life  into  the  eyes.  "A  lit 
tle  more,  and  he  would  have  been  with  the  mis- 
sioner !" 

He  dragged  the  Englishman  to  the  side  of  the 
'trail,  and  set  his  back  to  a  tree.  When  he  saw  that 
fallen  foeman's  breath  was  coming  more  strongly, 
he  followed  slowly  after  Melisse. 

Unobserved,  he  went  into  the  store  and  washed 
the  blood  from  his  face,  chuckling  with  huge  satis 
faction  when  he  looked  at  himself  in  the  little  glass 
which  hung  over  the  wash-basin. 

"Ah,  my  sweet  lowaka,  but  would  you  guess  now 
that  Jean  de  Gravois  had  received  two  clouts  on  the 
side  of  the  head  that  almost  sent  him  into  the  blessed 
hereafter?  I  would  not  have  had  you  see  it  for  all 
the  gold  in  this  world !" 

A  little  later  he  went  to  the  cabin.  lowaka  and 
the  children  were  at  Croisset's,  and  he  sat  down  to 
smoke  a  pipe.  Scarce  had  he  begun  sending  up  blue 
clouds  of  smoke  when  the  door  opened  and  Melisse 
came  in. 

"Hello,  ma  chere"  he  cried  gaily,  laughing  at  her 
with  a  wave  of  his  pipe. 

214 


A   KISS    AND    THE   CONSEQUENCES 

In  an  instant  she  had  flung  the  shawl  from  her 
head  and  was  upon  her  knees  at  his  feet,  her  white 
face  turned  up  to  him  pleadingly,  her  breath  falling 
upon  him  in  panting,  sobbing  excitement. 

"Jean,  Jean!"  she  whispered,  stretching  up  her 
hands  to  his  face.  "Please  tell  me  that  you  will  never 
tell  Jan — please  tell  me  that  you  never  will,  Jean — 
never,  never,  never!" 

"I  will  say  nothing,  Melisse." 

"Never,  Jean?" 

"Never." 

For  a  sobbing  breath  she  dropped  her  head  upon 
his  knees.  Then,  suddenly,  she  drew  down  his  face 
and  kissed  him. 

"Thank  you,  Jean,  for  what  you  have  done !" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  gasped  Jean  when  she  had  gone. 
"What  if  lowaka  had  been  here  then?" 


215 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A    BROKEN    HEART 

THE  day  following  the  fight  in  the  forest,  Dixon 
found  Jean  de  Gravois  alone,  and  came  up  to 
him. 

"Gravois,  will  you  shake  hands  with  me?"  he  said. 
"I  want  to  thank  you  for  what  you  did  to  me  yester 
day.  I  deserved  it  I  have  asked  Miss  Melisse  to 
forgive  me — and  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  you." 

Jean  was  thunderstruck.  He  had  never  met  this 
kind  of  man. 

"Que  dicmtre!"  he  ejaculated,  when  he  had  come 
to  his  senses.  "Yes,  I  will  shake  hands !" 

For  several  days  after  this  Jean  could  see  that 
Melisse  made  an  effort  to  evade  him.  She  did  not 
visit  lowaka  when  he  was  in  the  cabin.  Neither  did 
she  and  Dixon  go  again  into  the  forest.  The  young 
Englishman  spent  more  of  his  time  at  the  store;  and 

216 


A   BROKEN    HEART 

just  before  the  trappers  began  coming  in,  he  went  on 
a  three-days*  sledge-trip  with  Croisset. 

The  change  delighted  Jean.  The  first  time  he  met 
Melisse  after  the  fight,  his  eyes  flashed  pleasure. 

"Jan  will  surely  be  coming  home  soon,"  he  greeted 
her.  "What  if  the  birds  tell  him  what  happened  out 
there  on  the  trail?" 

She  flushed  scarlet. 

"Perhaps  the  same  birds  will  tell  us  what  has 
happened  down  on  the  Nelson  House  trail,  Jean," 
she  retorted. 

"Pouf !  Jan  Thoreau  doesn't  give  the  snap  of  his 
small  finger  for  the  MacVeigh  girl!"  Jean  replied, 
warm  in  defense  of  his  friend. 

"She  is  pretty,"  laughed  Melisse,  "and  I  have  just 
learned  that  is  why  men  like  to — like  them,  I  mean." 

Jean  strutted  before  her  like  a  peacock. 

"Am  I  pretty,  Melisse?" 

"No-o-o-o." 

"Then  why" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  sugges 
tively — "in  the  cabin — " 

"Because  you  were  brave,  Jean.  I  love  brave 
men!" 

217 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"You  were  glad  that  I  pummeled  the  stranger, 
then?" 

Melisse  did  not  answer,  but  he  caught  a  laughing 
sparkle  in  the  corner  of  her  eye  as  she  left  him. 

"Come  home,  Jan  Thoreau,"  he  hummed  softly, 
as  he  went  to  the  store.  "Come  home,  come  home, 
come  home,  for  the  little  Melisse  has  grown  into  a 
woman,  and  is  learning  to  use  her  eyes !" 

Among  the  first  of  the  trappers  to  come  in  with 
his  furs  was  MacVeigh.  He  brought  word  that  Jan 
had  gone  south,  to  spend  the  annual  holliday  at  Nel 
son  House,  and  Cummings  told  Melisse  whence  the 
message  came.  He  did  not  observe  the  slight  change 
that  came  into  her  face,  and  went  on : 

"I  don't  understand  this  in  Jan.  He  is  needed  here 
for  the  carnival.  Did  you  know  that  he  was  going 
to  Nelson  House?" 

Melisse  shook  her  head. 

"MacVeigh  says  they  have  made  him  an  offer  to 
go  down  there  as  chief  man,"  continued  the  factor. 
"It  is  strange  that  he  has  sent  no  explanation  to  me !" 

It  was  a  week  after  the  big  caribou  roast  before 
Jan  returned  to  Lac  Bain.  Melisse  saw  him  drive  in 

218 


A   BROKEN    HEART 

from  the  Churchill  trail;  but  while  her  heart  flut 
tered  excitedly,  she  steeled  herself  to  meet  him  with 
at  least  an  equal  show  of  the  calm  indifference  with 
which  he  had  left  her  six  weeks  before.  The  cool 
ness  of  his  leave-taking  still  rankled  bitterly  in  her 
bosom.  He  had  not  kissed  her;  he  had  not  even 
passed  his  last  evening  with  her. 

But  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  changed  Jan 
Thoreau  who  came  slowly  through  the  cabin  door. 
His  hair  and  beard  had  grown,  covering  the  smooth 
cheeks  which  he  had  always  kept  closely  shaven. 
His  eyes  glowed  with  dull  pleasure  as  she  stood  wait 
ing  for  him,  but  there  was  none  of  the  old  flash  and 
fire  in  them.  There  was  a  strangeness  in  his  manner, 
an  uneasiness  in  the  shifting  of  his  eyes,  which 
caused  the  half -defiant  flush  to  fade  slowly  from  her 
cheeks  before  either  had  spoken.  She  had  never 
known  this  Jan  before,  and  her  fortitude  left  her  as 
she  approached  him,  wonderingly,  silent,  her  hands 
reaching  out  to  him. 

"Jan!"  she  said. 

Her  voice  trembled ;  her  lips  quivered.  There  was 
the  old  glorious  pleading  in  her  eyes,  and  before  it 

219 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Jan  bowed  his  unkempt  head,  and  crushed  her  hands 
tightly  in  his  own.  For  a  half-minute  there  was  si 
lence,  and  in  that  half -minute  there  came  a  century 
between  them.  At  last  Jan  spoke. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Melisse.  It  has  seemed 
like  a  very  long  time !" 

He  lifted  his  eyes.  Before  them  the  girl  involun 
tarily  shrank  back,  and  Jan  freed  her  hands.  In  them 
she  saw  none  of  the  old  love-glow,  nothing  of  their 
old  comradeship.  Inscrutable,  reflecting  no  visible 
emotion,  they  passed  from  her  to  the  violin  hanging 
on  the  wall. 

"I  have  not  played  in  so  long,"  he  said,  turning 
from  her,  "that  I  believe  I  have  forgotten." 

He  took  down  the  instrument,  and  his  fingers 
traveled  clumsily  over  the  strings.  His  teeth  gleamed 
at  her  from  out  his  half -inch  growth  of  beard,  as  he 
said: 

"Ah,  you  must  play  for  me  now,  Melisse !  It  has 
surely  gone  from  Jan  Thoreau." 

He  held  out  the  violin  to  her. 

"Not  now,  Jan,"  she  said  tremulously.  "I  will 
play  for  you  to-night"  She  went  to  the  door  of  her 

220 


A    BROKEN    HEART 

room,  hesitating  for  a  moment,  with  her  back  to  him, 
"You  will  come  to  supper,  Jan?" 

"Surely,  Melisse,  if  you  are  prepared." 

He  hung  up  the  violin  as  she  closed  the  door,  and 
went  from  the  cabin.  Jean  de  Gravois  and  lowaka 
were  watching  for  him,  and  Jean  hurried  across  the 
open  to  meet  him. 

"I  am  coming  to  offer  you  the  loan  of  my  razor/1 
he  cried  gaily.  "lowaka  says  that  you  will  be  taken 
for  a  bear  if  the  trappers  see  you." 

"A  beard  is  good  to  keep  off  the  black  flies,"  re 
plied  Jan.  "It  is  approaching  summer,  and  the  black 
flies  love  to  feast  upon  me.  Let  us  go  down  the  trail, 
Jean.  I  want  to  speak  with  you." 

Where  there  had  been  wood-cutting  in  the  deep 
spruce  they  sat  down,  facing  each  other.  Jan  spoke 
in  French. 

"I  have  traveled  far  since  leaving  Lac  Bain,"  he 
said.  "I  went  first  to  Nelson  House,  and  from  here 
to  the  Wholdaia.  I  found  them  at  Nelson  House, 
but  not  on  the  Wholdaia." 

"What?"  asked  Jean,  though  he  knew  well  what 
the  other  meant. 

221 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"My  brothers,  Jean  de  Gravois,"  answered  Jan, 
drawing  his  lips  until  his  teeth  gleamed  in  a  sneering 
smile.  "My  brothers,  'les  betes  de  charogne!" 

"Devil  take  Croisset  for  telling  you  where  they 
were !"  muttered  Jean  under  his  breath. 

"I  saw  the  two  at  Nelson  House,"  continued  Jan. 
"One  of  them  is  a  half-wit,  and  the  other" — he 
hunched  his  shoulders — "is  worse.  Petraud,  one  of 
the  two  who  were  at  Wholdaia,  was  killed  by  a  Cree 
father  last  winter  for  dishonoring  his  daughter.  The 
other  disappeared." 

Jean  was  silent,  his  head  leaning  forward,  his  face 
resting  in  his  hands. 

"So  you  see,  Jean  de  Gravois,  what  sort  of  crea 
ture  is  your  friend  Jan  Thoreau!" 

Jean  raised  his  head  until  his  eyes  were  on  a  level 
with  those  of  his  companion. 

"I  see  that  you  are  a  bigger  fool  than  ever,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Jan  Thoreau,  what  if  I  should  break 
my  oath — and  tell  Melisse?" 

Unflinching  the  men's  eyes  met.  A  dull  glare 
came  into  Jan's.  Slowly  he  unsheathed  his  long 
knife,  and  placed  it  upon  the  snow  between  his  feet, 

222 


A   BROKEN    HEART 

with  the  gleaming  end  of  the  blade  pointing  toward 
Gravois.  With  a  low  cry  Jean  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Jan  Thoreau  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  give  the  knife-challenge  to  one  who  has  staked 
his  life  for  you  and  who  loves  you  as  a  brother?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jan  deliberately.  "I  love  you,  Jean 
more  than  any  other  man  in  the  world;  and  yet  I 
will  kill  you  if  you  betray  me  to  Melisse!"  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  little 
Frenchman.  "Jean,  wouldn't  you  do  as  I  am  doing? 
Wouldn't  you  have  done  as  much  for  lowaka?" 

For  a  moment  Gravois  was  silent. 

"I  would  not  have  taken  her  love  without  telling 
her,"  he  said  then.  "That  is  not  what  you  and  I 
know  as  honor,  Jan  Thoreau.  But  I  would  have  gone 
to  her,  as  you  should  now  go  to  Melisse,  and  she 
would  have  opened  her  arms  to  me,  as  Melisse 
would  opens  hers  to  you.  That  is  what  I  would  have 
done." 

"And  that  is  what  I  shall  never  do,"  said  Jan  de 
cisively,  turning  toward  the  post.  "I  could  kill  my 
self  more  easily.  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you, 
Jean.  No  one  but  you  and  I  must  ever  know !" 

223 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"I  would  like  to  choke  that  fool  of  a  Croisset  for 
sending  you  to  hunt  up  those  people  at  Nelson  House 
and  Wholdaia !"  grumbled  Jean. 

"It  was  best  for  me." 

They  saw  Melisse  leaving  lowaka's  home  when 
they  came  from  the  forest.  Both  waved  their  hands 
to  her,  and  Jan  cut  across  the  open  to  the  store. 

Jean  went  to  the  Cummins  cabin  as  soon  as  he 
was  sure  that  he  was  not  observed.  There  was  little 
of  the  old  vivacity  in  his  manner  as  he  greeted  Me 
lisse.  He  noted,  too,  that  the  girl  was  not  her  natu 
ral  self.  There  was  a  redness  under  her  eyes  which 
told  him  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"Melisse,"  he  said  at  last,  speaking  to  her  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  cap  he  was  twisting  in  his  fin 
gers,  "there  has  come  a  great  change  over  Jan." 

"A  very  great  change,  Jean.  If  I  were  to  guess, 
I  should  say  that  his  heart  has  been  broken  down  on 
the  Nelson  trail." 

Gravois  caught  the  sharp  meaning  in  her  voice, 
which  trembled  a  little  as  she  spoke.  He  was  before 
her  in  an  instant,  his  cap  fallen  to  the  floor,  his  eyes 
blazing  as  he  caught  her  by  the  arms. 

224 


A   BROKEN    HEART 

"Yes,  the  heart  of  Jan  Thoreau  is  broken!"  he 
cried.  "But  it  has  been  broken  by  nothing  that  lives 
on  the  Nelson  House  trail.  It  is  broken  because  of 


-you. 

"I !"  Melisse  drew  back  from  him  with  a  breath 
less  cry.  "I — I  have  broken — " 

"I  did  not  say  that,"  interrupted  Jean.  "I  say  that 
it  is  broken  because  of  you.  Mon  Ditu,  if  only  I 
might  tell  you!" 

"Do— do,  Jean!  Please  tell  me!"  She  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders.  Her  eyes  implored  him. 
"Tell  me  what  I  have  done — what  I  can  do,  Jean!" 

"I  can  say  that  much  to  you,  and  no  more,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Only  know  this,  ma  chere — that  there 
is  a  great  grief  eating  at  the  soul  of  Jan  Thoreau, 
and  that  because  of  this  grief  he  is  changed.  I  know 
what  this  grief  is,  but  I  am  pledged  never  to  reveal 
it.  It  is  for  you  to  find  out,  and  to  do  this,  above  all 
else — let  him  know  that  you  love  him !" 

The  color  had  faded  from  her  startled  face,  but 
now  it  came  back  again  in  a  swift  flood. 

"That  I  love  him?" 

"Yes.  Not  as  a  sister  any  longer,  Melisse,  but  as  a 

woman!" 

225 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HER    PROMISE 

f 

GRAVOIS  did  not  stay  to  see  the  effect  of  his 
last  words.  Only  he  knew,  as  he  went  through 
the  door,  that  her  eyes  were  following  him,  and  that 
if  he  looked  at  her  she  would  call  him  back.  So  he 
shut  the  door  quickly  behind  him,  fearing  that  he 
had  already  said  too  much. 

Cummins  and  Jan  came  in  together  at  supper- 
time.  The  factor  was  in  high  humor.  An  Indian 
from  the  Porcupine  had  brought  in  two  silver  fox 
that  morning,  and  he  was  immensely  pleased  at  Jan's 
return — a  combination  of  incidents  which  put  him 
in  the  best  of  moods. 

Melisse  sat  opposite  Jan  at  the  table.  She  had 
twisted  a  sprig  of  red  bakneesh  into  her  glossy  braid, 
and  a  cluster  of  it  nestled  at  her  throat,  but  Jan 
gave  no  sign  that  he  had  noticed  this  little  favor, 

226 


HER    PROMISE 

which  was  meant  entirely  for  him.  He  smiled  at 
her,  but  there  was  a  clear  coolness  in  the  depths  of 
his  dark  eyes  which  checked  any  of  the  old  familiar 
ity  on  her  part. 

"Has  MacVeigh  put  in  his  new  trap-line?"  Cum 
mins  inquired,  after  asking  Jan  many  questions 
about  his  trip. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Jan.  "I  didn't  go  to  Mac- 
Veighs'." 

Purposely  he  held  his  eyes  from  Melisse.  She 
understood  his  effort,  and  a  quick  flush  gathered  in 
her  cheeks. 

"It  was  MacVeigh  who  brought  in  word  of  you," 
persisted  the  factor,  oblivious  of  the  effect  of  his 
questions. 

"I  met  him  in  the  Cree  Lake  country,  but  he  said 
nothing  of  his  trap-lines." 

He  rose  from  the  table  with  Cummins,  and  started 
to  follow  him  from  the  cabin.  Melisse  came  be 
tween.  For  a  moment  her  hand  rested  upon  his  arm. 

"You  are  going  to  stay  with  me,  Jan,"  she  smiled. 
"I  want  your  help  with  the  dishes,  and  then  we're 
going  to  play  on  the  violin." 

227 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

She  pulled  him  into  a  chair  as  Cummins  left,  and 
tied  an  apron  about  his  shoulders. 

"Close  your  eyes — and  don't  move!"  she  com 
manded,  laughing  into  his  surprised  face  as  she  ran 
into  her  room. 

A  moment  later  she  returned  with  one  hand  held 
behind  her  back.  The  hot  blood  surged  through 
Jan's  veins  when  he  felt  her  fingers  running  gently 
through  his  long  hair.  There  came  the  snip  of  scis 
sors,  a  little  nervous  laugh  close  to  his  head,  and 
then  again  the  snip,  snip,  snip  of  the  scissors. 

"It's  terribly  long,  Jan!"  Her  soft  hand  brushed 
his  bearded  cheek.  "Ugh!"  she  shuddered.  "You 
must  take  that  off  your  face.  If  you  don't — " 

"Why?"  he  asked,  through  lack  of  anything  else 
to  say. 

She  lowered  her  head  until  her  cheek  pressed 
against  his  own. 

"Because  it  feels  like  bristles,"  she  whispered. 

She  reddened  fiercely  when  he  remained  silent, 
and  the  scissors  snipped  more  rapidly  between  her 
fingers. 

"I'm  going  to  prospect  the  big  swamp  along  the 
228 


HER    PROMISE 

edge  of  the  Barrens  this  summer/'  he  explained 
soon,  laughing  to  relieve  the  tension.  "A  beard  will 
protect  me  from  the  black  flies." 

"You  can  grow  another." 

She  took  the  apron  from  about  his  shoulders,  and 
held  it  so  that  he  could  see  the  result  of  her  work. 
He  looked  up,  smiling. 

"Thank  you,  Melisse.  Do  you  remember  when 
you  last  cut  my  hair?" 

"Yes — it  was  over  on  the  mountain.  We  had 
taken  the  scissors  along  for  cutting  bakneesh,  and 
you  looked  so  like  a  wild  Indian  that  I  made  you  sit 
on  a  rock  and  let  me  trim  it." 

"And  you  cut  my  ear,"  he  reminded. 

"For  which  you  made  me  pay,"  she  retorted 
quickly,  almost  under  her  breath. 

She  went  to  the  cupboard  behind  the  stove,  and 
brought  out  her  father's  shaving-mug  and  razor. 

"I  insist  that  you  shall  use  them,"  she  said,  stir 
ring  the  soap  into  a  lather,  and  noting  the  indecision 
in  his  face.  "I  am  afraid  of  you !" 

"Afraid  of  me?" 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  little  mir- 
229 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

for,  turning  his  face  from  side  to  side.  Melisse 
handed  him  the  razor  and  cup. 

"You  don't  seem  like  the  Jan  that  I  used  to  know 
once  upon  a  time.  There  has  been  a  great  change 
in  you  since — since — " 

She  hesitated. 

"Since  when,  Melisse?" 

"Since  the  day  we  came  in  from  the  mountain 
and  I  put  up  my  hair."  With  timid  sweetness  she 
added :  "I  haven't  had  it  up  again,  Jan." 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  lathered  face  in  the 
glass,  staring  at  her  with  big,  seeking  eyes.  He 
turned  them  quickly  away  when  he  saw  that  she  was 
looking,  and  Melisse  set  to  work  at  the  dishes.  She 
had  washed  them  before  he  finished  shaving.  Then 
she  took  down  the  old  violin  from  the  wall  and  be 
gan  to  play,  her  low,  sweet  voice  accompanying  the 
instrument  in  a  Cree  melody  which  lowaka  had 
taught  her  during  Jan's  absence  at  Nelson  House 
and  the  Wholdaia. 

Surprised,  he  faced  her,  his  eyes  glowing  as  there 
fell  from  her  lips  the  gentle  love-song  of  a  heart 
broken  Indian  maiden,  filled  with  its  infinite  sadness 

230 


HER    PROMISE 

and  despair.  He  knew  the  song.  It  was  a  lyric  of 
the  Crees.  He  had  heard  it  before,  but  never  as  it 
came  to  him  now,  sobbing  its  grief  in  the  low  notes 
of  the  violin,  speaking  to  him  with  immeasurable 
pathos  from  the  trembling  throat  of  Melisse. 

He  stood  silent  until  she  had  finished,  staring 
down  upon  her  bowed  head.  When  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  him,  he  saw  that  her  long  lashes  were  wet 
and  glistening  in  the  lamp-glow. 

"It  is  wonderful,  Melisse !  You  have  made  beauti 
ful  music  for  it." 

"Thank  you,  Jan/' 

She  played  again,  her  voice  humming  with  ex 
quisite  sweetness  the  wordless  music  which  he  had 
taught  her.  At  last  she  gave  him  the  violin. 

"Now  you  must  play  for  me." 

"I  have  forgotten  a  great  deal,  Melisse." 

She  was  astonished  to  see  how  clumsily  his  brown 
fingers  traveled  over  the  strings.  As  she  watched 
him,  her  heart  thrilled  uneasily.  It  was  not  the  old 
Jan  who  was  playing  for  her  now,  but  a  new  Jan, 
whose  eyes  shone  dull  and  passionless,  in  whom 
there  was  no  stir  of  the  old  spirit  of  the  violin.  He 

231 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

wandered  listlessly  from  one  thing  to  another,  and 
after  a  few  minutes  gave  her  the  instrument  again. 

Without  speaking,  she  rose  from  her  chair  and 
hung  the  violin  upon  the  wall. 

"You  must  practise  a  great  deal,"  she  said  quietly. 

At  her  movement  he,  too,  rose  from  his  seat ;  and 
when  she  turned  to  him  again  he  had  his  cap  in  his 
hand.  A  flash  of  surprise  shot  into  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  so  soon,  Jan  ?" 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said  in  excuse.  "It  has  been  two 
days  since  I  have  slept,  Melisse.  Good  night !" 

He  smiled  at  her  from  the  door,  but  the  "Good 
night"  which  fell  from  her  lips  was  lifeless  and  un 
meaning.  Jan  shivered  when  he  went  out.  Under 
the  cold  stars  he  clenched  his  hands,  knowing  that 
he  had  come  from  the  cabin  none  too  soon. 

Choking  back  the  grief  of  this  last  meeting  with 
Melisse,  he  crossed  to  the  company  store. 

It  was  late  when  Cummins  returned  home.  Me 
lisse  was  still  up.  He  looked  at  her  sharply  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  hung  up  his  coat  and  hat. 

"Has  anything  come  between  you  and  Jan?''  he 
asked  suddenly.  "Why  have  you  been  crying?" 

232 


HER    PROMISE 

"Sometimes  the  tears  come  when  I  am  playing 
the  violin,  father.  I  know  of  nothing  that  has  come 
between  Jan  and  me,  only  I — I  don't  understand — " 

She  stopped,  struggling  hard  to  keep  back  the 
sobs  that  were  trembling  in  her  throat. 

"Neither  do  I  understand,"  exclaimed  the  factor, 
going  to  the  stove  to  light  his  pipe.  "He  gave  me  his 
resignation  as  a  paid  servant  of  the  company  to 
night!" 

"He  is  not  going — to  leave — the  post?"  breathed 
Melisse. 

"He  is  leaving  the  service,"  reiterated  her  father. 
"That  means  he  can  not  long  live  at  Lac  Bain.  He 
says  he  is  going  into  the  woods,  perhaps  into  Jean's 
country  of  the  Athabasca.  Has  he  told  you  more?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Melisse. 

She  was  upon  her  knees  in  front  of  the  little  book 
case.  A  blinding  film  burned  in  her  eyes.  She  caught 
her  breath,  struggling  hard  to  master  herself  before 
she  faced  her  father  again.  For  a  moment  the  factor 
went  into  his  room,  and  she  took  this  opportunity 
of  slipping  into  her  own,  calling  "Good  night"  to 
him  from  the  partly  closed  door. 

233 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

The  next  day  it  was  Croisset  who  went  along  the 
edge  of  the  Barrens  for  meat.  Gravois  found  Jan 
filling  a  new  shoulder-pack  with  supplies.  It  was 
their  first  encounter  since  he  had  learned  that  Jan 
had  given  up  the  service. 

"DiaUe!"  he  fairly  hissed,  standing  over  him  as 
he  packed  his  flour  and  salt  in  a  rubber  bag.  "Diable, 
I  say,  M.  Jan  Thoreau !" 

Jan  looked  up,  smiling,  to  see  the  little  French 
man  fairly  quivering  with  rage. 

"Bon  jour,  M.  Jean  de  Gravois !"  he  laughed  back. 
"You  see  I  am  going  out  among  the  foxes." 

"The  devils !"  snapped  Jean. 

"No,  the  foxes,  my  dear  Jean.  I  am  tired  of  the 
post.  I  can  make  better  wage  for  my  time  in  the 
swamps  to  the  west.  Think  of  it,  Jean !  It  has  been 
many  years  since  you  have  trapped  there,  and  the 
foxes  must  be  eating  up  the  country !" 

Jean's  thin  lips  were  almost  snarling. 

"Blessed  saints,  and  it  was  I  who — " 

He  spun  upon  his  heels  without  another  word,  and 
went  straight  to  Melisse. 

"Jan  Thoreau  is  going  to  leave  the  post,"  he  an- 

234 


HER    PROMISE 

nounced  fiercely,  throwing  out  his  chest  and  glaring 
at  her  accusingly. 

"So  father  has  told  me,"  said  Melisse. 

Her  cheeks  were  colorless,  and«there  were  purplish 
lines  under  her  eyes,  but  she  spoke  with  exceeding 
calmness. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Jean,  whirling  again, 
"you  take  it  coolly !" 

A  little  later  Melisse  saw  Jan  coming  from  the 
store.  When  he  entered  the  cabin  his  dark  face  be 
trayed  the  strain  under  which  he  was  laboring,  but 
his  voice  was  unnaturally  calm. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-by,  Melisse,"  he  said. 
"I  am  going  to  prospect  for  a  good  trap-line  among 
the  Barrens." 

"I  hope  you  will  have  good  luck,  Jan." 

In  her  voice,  too,  was  a  firmness  almost  metallic. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Jan  held  out  his  hand 
to  her.  She  started,  and  for  an  instant  the  blood 
surged  from  her  heart  to  her  face.  Then  she  gave 
him  her  own  and  looked  him  squarely  and  unflinch 
ingly  in  the  eyes. 

"Will  you  wait  a  moment?"  she  asked. 
235 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

She  hurried  into  her  room,  and  scarcely  had  she 
gone  before  she  reappeared  again,  this  time  with  a 
flush  burning  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  shining 
brightly.  She  had  unbraided  her  hair,  and  it  lay 
coiled  upon  the  crown  of  her  head,  glistening  with 
crimson  sprigs  of  bakneesh.  She  came  to  him  a  sec 
ond  time,  and  once  more  gave  him  her  hand. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  care  now/5  she  said  coldly, 
and  yet  laughing  in  his  face.  "I  have  not  broken  my 
promise.  It  was  silly,  wasn't  it  ?" 

He  felt  as  if  his  blood  had  been  suddenly  chilled 
to  water,  and  he  fought  to  choke  back  the  thick 
throbbing  in  his  throat. 

"You  promised — "  He  could  not  go  further. 

"I  promised  that  I  would  not  do  up  my  hair  again 
until  you  had  forgotten  to  love  me,"  she  finished  for 
him.  "I  will  do  it  up  now." 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  she  could  see  his  shoul 
ders  quiver  under  their  thick  caribou  coat.  Her 
tense  lips  parted,  and  she  raised  her  arms  as  if  on 
the  point  of  stretching  them  out  to  him;  but  his 
voice  came  evenly,  without  a  quiver,  yet  filled  with 
the  dispassionate  truth  of  what  he  spoke. 

236 


HER    PROMISE 

"I  have  not  forgotten  to  love  you,  Melisse.  I  shall 
never  cease  to  love  my  little  sister.  But  you  are 
older  now,  and  it  is  time  for  you  to  do  up  your  hair." 

He  turned,  without  looking  at  her  again,  leaving 
her  standing  with  her  arms  still  half  stretched  out 
to  him,  and  went  from  the  cabin. 

"Good-by,  Jan!" 

The  words  fell  in  a  sobbing  whisper  from  her, 
but  he  had  gone  too  far  to  hear.  Through  the  win 
dow  she  saw  him  shake  hands  with  Cummins  in 
front  of  the  company's  store.  She  watched  him  as 
he  went  to  the  cabin  of  lowaka  and  Jean.  Then  she 
saw  him  shoulder  his  pack,  and,  with  bowed  head, 
disappear  slowly  into  the  depths  of  the  black  spruce 
forest. 


257 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JAN   RETURNS 

ALL  that  spring  and  summer  Jan  spent  in  the 
thick  caribou  swamps  and  low  ridge-moun 
tains  along  the  Barrens.  It  was  two  months  before 
he  appeared  at  the  post  again,  and  then  he  remained 
only  long  enough  to  patch  himself  up  and  secure 
fresh  supplies. 

Melisse  had  suffered  quietly  during  these  two 
months,  a  grief  and  loneliness  filling  her  heart  which 
none  knew  but  herself.  Even  from  lowaka  she  kept 
her  unhappiness  a  secret;  and  yet  when  the  gloom 
had  settled  heaviest  upon  her,  she  was  still  buoyed 
up  by  a  persistent  hope.  Until  Jan's  last  visit  to  Lac 
Bain  this  hope  never  quite  went  out. 

The  first  evening  after  his  arrival  from  the 
swamps  to  the  west,  he  came  to  the  cabin.  His  beard 
had  grown  again.  His  hair  was  long  and  shaggy, 
and  fell  in  shining  dishevelment  upon  his  shoulders. 
The  sensitive  beauty  of  his  great  eyes,  once  respon- 

238 


JAN    RETURNS 

sive  to  every  passing  humor  in  Melisse,  flashing 
fun  at  her  laughter,  glowing  softly  in  their  devo 
tion,  was  gone.  His  face  was  filled  with  the  age-old 
silence  of  the  forest  man.  Firmly  and  yet  gently,  it 
repelled  whatever  of  the  old  things  she  might  have 
said  and  done,  holding  her  away  from  him  as  if  by 
power  of  a  strong  hand. 

This  time  Melisse  knew  that  there  was  left  not 
even  the  last  comforting  spark  of  hope  within  her 
bosom.  Jan  had  gone  out  of  her  life  for  ever,  leav 
ing  to  her,  as  a  haunting  ghost  of  what  they  two  had 
once  been  to  each  other,  the  old  violin  on  the  cabin 
wall. 

After  he  went  away  again,  the  violin  became  more 
and  more  to  her  what  it  had  once  been  to  him.  She 
played  it  as  he  had  played  it,  sobbing  her  loneliness 
and  her  heart-break  through  its  strings,  in  lone  hours 
clasping  it  to  her  breast  and  speaking  to  it  as  Jan  had 
talked  to  it  in  years  gone  by. 

"If  you  could  only  tell  me — if  you  only  could!" 
she  whispered  to  it  one  day,  when  the  autumn  was 
drawing  near.  "If  you  could  tell  me  about  him,  and 
what  I  might  do — dear  old  violin !" 

239 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Once  during  the  autumn  Jan  came  in  for  supplies 
and  traps,  and  his  dogs  and  sledge.  He  was  plan 
ning  to  spend  the  winter  two  hundred  miles  to  the 
west,  in  the  country  of  the  Athabasca,  He  was  at 
Lac  Bain  for  a  week,  and  during  this  time  a  mail- 
runner  came  in  from  Fort  Churchill. 

The  runner  brought  a  new  experience  into  the  life 
of  Melisse — her  first  letter.  It  was  from  young 
Dixon — twenty  or  more  closely  written  pages  of  it, 
in  which  he  informed  her  that  he  was  going  to  spend 
a  part  of  the  approaching  winter  at  Lac  Bain. 

She  was  reading  the  last  page  when  Jan  came  into 
the  cabin.  Her  cheeks  were  slightly  flushed  by  this 
new  excitement,  which  was  reflected  in  her  eyes  as 
she  looked  at  Jan. 

"A  letter !"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  two  hands 
filled  with  the  pages.  "A  letter — to  me,  Jan,  all  the 
way  from  Fort  Churchill !" 

"Who  in  the  world — "  he  began,  smiling  at  her; 
and  stopped. 

"It's  from  Mr.  Dixon,"  she  said,  the  flush  deepen 
ing  in  her  cheeks.  "He's  going  to  spend  part  of  the 
winter  with  us," 

240 


JAN   RETURNS 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  Melisse,"  said  Jan  quietly.  "I 
like  him,  and  would  like  to  know  him  better.  I  hope 
he  will  bring  you  some  more  books — and  strings." 
He  glanced  at  the  old  violin.  "Do  you  play  much  ?" 

"A  great  deal,"  she  replied.  "Won't  you  play  for 
me,  Jan?" 

"My  hands  are  too  rough;  and  besides,  I've  for 
gotten  all  that  I  ever  knew." 

"Even  the  things  you  played  when  I  was  a  baby  ?" 

"I  think  I  have,  Melisse.  But  you  must  never  for 
get  them." 

"I  shall  remember  them — always,"  she  answered 
softly.  "Some  day  it  may  be  that  I  will  teach  them 
to  you  again." 

He  did  not  see  her  again  until  six  months  later, 
when  he  came  in  to  the  caribou  roast,  with  his  furs. 
Then  he  learned  that  another  letter  had  come  to 
Melisse,  and  that  Dixon  had  gone  to  London  instead 
of  coming  to  Lac  Bain. 

The  day  after  the  carnival  he  went  back  into  the 
country  of  the  Athabasca.  Spring  did  not  see  him 
at  Lac  Bain.  Early  summer  brought  no  news  of  him. 
In  the  floods,  Jean  went  by  the  water-way  to  the 

241 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

Athabasca,  and  found  Thoreau's  cabin  abandoned. 
There  had  not  been  life  in  it  for  a  long  time.  The 
Indians  said  that  since  the  melting  snows  they  had 
not  seen  Jan.  A  half-breed  whom  Jean  met  at  Fond 
du  Lac  said  that  he  had  found  the  bones  of  a  white 
man  on  the  Beaver,  with  a  Hudson's  Bay  gun  and  a 
horn-handled  knife  beside  them. 

Jean  came  back  to  Lac  Bain  heavy  at  heart. 

"There  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  is  dead/'  he  told 
lowaka.  "I  do  not  believe  that  it  will  hurt  very 
much  if  you  tell  Melisse." 

One  day  early  in  September  a  lone  figure  came  in 
to  the  post  at  noon,  when  the  company  people  were 
at  dinner.  He  carried  a  pack,  and  six  dogs  trailed 
at  his  heels.  It  was  Jan  Thoreau. 

"I  have  been  down  to  civilization,"  was  his  ex 
planation.  "I  have  returned  to  spend  this  winter  at 
Lac  Bain." 


242 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   RESCUE 

ON  the  first  snow  came  young  Dixon  from 
Fort  Churchill.  Jean  de  Gravois  met  him  on 
the  trail  near  Ledoq's.  When  the  Englishman  rec 
ognized  the  little  Frenchman  he  leaped  from  hia 
sledge  and  advanced  with  outstretched  hand,  his  face 
lighting  up  with  pleasure. 

"Bless  me,  if  it  isn't  my  old  friend,  Jean!"  he 
cried.  "I  was  just  thinking  of  you,  Gravois,  and 
how  you  trimmed  me  to  a  finish  two  winters  ago. 
I've  learned  a  lot  about  you  people  up  here  in  the 
snows  since  then,  and  I'll  never  do  anything  like 
that  again."  He  laughed  into  Jean's  face  as  they 
shook  hands,  and  his  voice  was  filled  with  un 
bounded  sincerity.  "How  is  Mrs.  Gravois,  and  the 
little  Gravois — and  Melisse  ?"  he  added,  before  Jean 
had  spoken. 

"All  well,  M'seur  Dixon,"  replied  Jean.  "Only 
243 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 
the  little  Gravois  have  almost  grown  into  a  man  and 


woman." 


An  hour  or  so  later  he  said  to  lowaka : 

"I  can't  help  liking  this  man  Dixon,  and  yet  I 
don't  want  to.  Why  is  it,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Is  it  because  you  are  afraid  that  Melisse  will 
like  him?"  asked  his  wife,  smiling  over  her  shoulder. 

"Blessed  saints,  I  believe  that  it  is!"  said  Jean 
frankly.  "I  hate  foreigners — and  Melisse  belongs 
to  Jan." 

"She  did,  once,  but  that  was  a  long  time  ago, 
Jean." 

"It  may  be,  and  yet  I  doubt  it,  ma  bien  almee.  If 
Jan  would  tell  her — " 

"A  woman  will  not  wait  always,"  interrupted 
lowaka  softly.  "Jan  Thoreau  has  waited  too  long !" 

A  week  later,  as  they  stood  together  in  front  of 
their  door,  they  saw  Dixon  and  Melisse  walking 
slowly  in  the  edge  of  the  forest.  The  woman 
laughed  into  Jean's  face. 

"Did  I  not  say  that  Jan  had  waited  too  long?" 

Jean's  face  was  black  with  disapprobation. 

"Then  you  would  have  taken  up  with  some  for- 
244 


THE   RESCUE 

eigner  if  I  had  remained  in  the  Athabasca  country 
another  year  or  two  ?"  he  demanded  questioningly. 

"Very  likely,"  retorted  lowaka  mischievously, 
running  into  the  cabin. 

"The  devil !"  said  Jean  sourly,  stalking  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  store. 

He  was  angered  at  the  coolness  with  which  Jan 
accepted  the  situation.  x 

"This  Dixon  is  with  Melisse  afternoon  and  even 
ing,  and  they  walk  together  every  day  in  the  bush," 
he  said  to  him.  "Soon  there  will  be  a  wedding  at 
Lac  Bain !" 

"Melisse  deserves  a  good  man,"  replied  Jan,  un 
moved.  "I  like  Dixon." 

Deep  down  in  his  soul  he  knew  that  each  day  was 
bringing  the  end  of  it  all  much  nearer  for  him.  He 
did  not  tell  Melisse  that  he  had  returned  to  Lac 
Bain  to  be  near  her  once  more,  nor  did  he  confide  in 
Jean.  He  had  anticipated  that  this  winter  at  the 
post  would  be  filled  with  a  certain  painful  pleasure 
for  him — but  he  had  not  anticipated  Dixon.  Day 
after  day  he  saw  Melisse  and  the  Englishman  to 
gether,  and  while  they  awakened  in  him  none  of  the 

245 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

fiery  jealousy  which  might  have  rankled  in  the 
bosom  of  Jean  de  Gravois,  the  knowledge  that  the 
girl  was  at  last  passing  from  him  for  ever  added  a 
deeper  grief  to  that  which  was  already  eating  at  his 
heart. 

Dixon  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  feelings.  He 
loved  Melisse.  Frankly  he  told  this  to  Jean  one  day, 
when  they  were  on  the  Churchill  trail.  In  his  honest 
way  he  said  things  which  broke  down  the  last  of 
Jean's  hereditary  prejudices,  and  compelled  him  to 
admit  that  this  was  a  different  sort  of  foreigner  than 
he  had  ever  known  before. 

"Diable,  I  like  him/'  he  said  to  himself;  "and  yet 
I  would  rather  see  him  in  the  blessed  hereafter  than 
have  him  take  Melisse  from  Jan !" 

The  big  snow  decided. 

It  came  early  in  December.  Dixon  had  set  out 
alone  for  Ledoq's  early  in  the  morning.  By  noon 
the  sky  was  a  leaden  black,  and  a  little  later  one 
could  not  see  a  dozen  paces  ahead  of  him  for  the 
snow.  The  Englishman  did  not  return  that  day. 
The  next  day  he  was  still  gone,  and  Gravois  drove 
along  the  top  of  the  mountain  ridge  until  he  came 

246 


THE   RESCUE 

to  the  Frenchman's,  where  he  found  that  Dixon  had 
started  for  Lac  Bain  the  preceding  afternoon.  He 
brought  word  back  to  the  post.  Then  he  went  to 
Melisse. 

"It  is  as  good  as  death  to  go  out  in  search  of  him," 
he  said.  "We  can  no  longer  use  the  dogs.  Snow- 
shoes  will  sink  like  leaden  bullets  by  morning,  and  to 
go  ten  miles  from  the  post  means  that  there  will  be 
bones  to  be  picked  by  the  foxes  when  the  crust 
comes !" 

It  was  dark  when  Jan  came  into  the  cabin.  Me 
lisse  started  to  her  feet  with  a  little  cry  when  he  en 
tered,  covered  white  with  the  snow.  A  light  pack 
was  strapped  to  his  back,  and  he  carried  his  rifle  in 
his  hand. 

"I  am  going  to  hunt  for  him,"  he  said  softly.  "If 
he  is  alive,  I  will  bring  him  back  to  you." 

She  came  to  him  slowly,  and  the  beating  of  Jan's 
heart  sounded  to  him  like  the  distant  thrumming  of 
partridge-wings.  Ah,  would  he  ever  forget  that 
look  ?  The  old  glory  was  in  her  eyes,  her  arms  were 
reaching  out,  her  lips  parted.  Jan  knew  how  the 
Oreat  Spirit  had  once  appeared  to  Mukee,  and  how 

247 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

a  white  mist,  like  a  snow-veil,  had  come  between  the 
half-breed's  eyes  and  the  wondrous  Thing  he  beheld. 
That  same  veil  drifted  between  Jan  and  the  girl.  As 
in  a  vision,  he  saw  her  face  so  near  to  him  that  he 
felt  the  touch  of  her  sweet  breath,  and  he  knew  that 
one  of  his  rough  hands  was  clasped  in  both  of  her 
own,  and  that  after  a  moment  it  was  crushed  tightly 
against  her  bosom. 

"Jan,  my  hero — " 

He  struggled  back,  almost  sobbing,  as  he  plunged 
out  into  the  night  again.  He  heard  her  voice  crying 
after  him,  but  the  wild  wailing  of  the  spruce,  and 
the  storm  in  his  brain,  drowned  its  words.  He  had 
seen  the  glorious  light  of  love  in  her  eyes — her  love 
for  Dixon!  And  he  would  find  him!  At  last  he, 
Jan  Thoreau,  would  prove  that  the  old  love  was  not 
dead  within  him;  he  would  do  for  Melisse  this  night 
— to-morrow — the  next  day,  and  until  he  fell  down 
to  die — what  he  had  promised  to  do  on  their  sledge- 
ride  to  Ledoq's.  And  then — 

He  went  to  Ledoq's  now,  following  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  and  reached  his  cabin  in  the  late  dawn. 
The  Frenchman  stared  at  him  in  amazement  when 

248 


THE   RESCUE 

he  learned  that  he  was  about  to  set  out  on  a  search 
for  Dixon. 

"You  will  not  find  him,"  he  said  slowly  in  French ; 
"but  if  you  are  determined  to  go,  I  will  hunt  with 
you.  It  is  a  big  chance  that  we  will  not  come  back." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  objected  Jan.  "One 
will  do  as  much  as  two,  unless  we  search  alone.  I 
came  your  way  to  find  if  it  had  begun  to  snow  before 
Dixon  left." 

"An  hour  after  he  had  gone,  you  could  not  see 
your  hand  before  your  face,"  replied  Ledoq,  prepar 
ing  his  pack.  "There  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  circled 
out  over  Lac  Bain.  We  will  go  that  far  together, 
and  then  search  alone." 

They  went  back  over  the  mountain,  and  stopped 
when  instinct  told  them  that  they  were  opposite  the 
spruce  forests  of  the  lake.  There  they  separated,  Jan 
going  as  nearly  as  he  could  guess  into  the  northwest, 
Ledoq  trailing  slowly  and  hopelessly  into  the  south. 

It  was  no  great  sacrifice  for  Jan,  this  struggle 
with  the  big  snows  for  the  happiness  of  Melisse. 
What  it  was  to  Ledoq  no  man  ever  guessed  or  knew, 
for  it  was  not  until  the  late  spring  snows  had  gone 

249 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

that  the  people  at  Lac  Bain  found  what  the  foxes 
and  the  wolves  had  left  of  him,  far  to  the  south. 

Fearlessly  Jan  plunged  into  the  white  world  of 
the  lake.  There  was  neither  rock  nor  tree  to  guids 
him,  for  everywhere  was  the  heavy  ghost-raiment  of 
the  Indian  god.  The  balsams  were  bending  under  it, 
the  spruces  were  breaking  into  hunchback  forms,  the 
whole  world  was  twisted  in  noiseless  torture  under 
its  increasing  weight.  Out  through  the  still  terror 
of  it  all  Jan's  voice  went  in  wild,  echoing  shouts. 
Now  and  then  he  fired  his  rifle,  and  always  he  lis 
tened  long  and  intently.  The  echoes  came  back  to 
him,  laughing,  taunting,  and  then  each  time  fell  the 
mirthless  silence  of  the  storm. 

Day  came,  only  a  little  lighter  than  the  night.  He 
crossed  the  lake,  his  snow-shoes  sinking  ankle-deep 
at  every  step,  and  once  each  half -hour  he  fired  a 
single  shot  from  his  rifle.  He  heard  shots  to  the 
south,  and  knew  that  it  was  Ledoq;  each  report 
coming  to  him  more  faintly  than  the  last,  until  they 
had  died  away  entirely. 

Across  the  lake  he  struck  the  forest  again,  and  his 
shouts  echoed  in  futile  inquiry  in  its  weird  depths. 

250 


THE   RESCUE 

About  him  there  was  no  sign  of  life,  no  sound  except 
the  faint  fluttering  of  falling  snow.  Under  five  feet 
of  this  snow  the  four-footed  creatures  of  the  wilder 
ness  were  snugly  buried ;  close  against  the  trunks  of 
the  spruces,  sheltered  within  their  tent-like  cover 
ings,  the  birds  waited  like  lifeless  things  for  the 
breaking  of  the  storm. 

At  noon  Jan  stopped  and  ate  his  lunch.  Then  he 
went  on,  carrying  his  rifle  always  upon  his  right 
shoulder,  so  that  the  steps  of  his  right  leg  would  be 
shortened,  and  he  would  travel  in  a  circle,  as  he  be 
lieved  Dixon  had  done. 

The  storm  thickened  with  the  falling  of  night, 
and  he  burrowed  himself  a  great  hole  in  the  soft 
snow  and  filled  it  with  balsam  boughs  for  a  bed. 
When  he  awakened,  hours  later,  he  stood  up,  and 
thrust  out  his  head,  and  found  himself  buried  to  the 
arm-pits.  With  the  aid  of  his  broad  snow-shoes  he 
drew  himself  out,  until  he  stood  knee-deep  in  the 
surface. 

He  lifted  his  pack.  As  he  swung  it  before  him, 
one  arm  thrust  through  a  strap,  he  gave  a  startled 
cry.  Half  of  one  side  of  the  pack  was  eaten  away! 

251 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

He  thrust  his  hands  through  the  breach,  and  ? 
moan  of  despair  sobbed  on  his  lips  when  he  found 
that  his  food  was  gone.  A  thin  trickle  of  flour  ran 
through  his  fingers  upon  the  snow.  He  pulled  out 
a  gnawed  pound  of  bacon,  a  little  tea — and  that  was 
all. 

Frantically  he  ripped  the  rent  wider  in  his  search, 
and  when  he  stood  up,  his  wild  face  staring  into  the 
chaos  about  him,  he  held  only  the  bit  of  bacon  in  his 
hand.  In  it  were  the  imprints  of  tiny  teeth — sharp 
little  razor-edged  teeth  that  told  him  what  had  hap 
pened.  While  he  had  slept  a  mink  had  robbed  him 
of  his  food! 

With  one  of  his  shoes  he  began  digging  furiously 
in  the  snow.  He  tore  his  balsam  bed  to  pieces. 
Somewhere — somewhere  not  very  far  away — the 
little  animal  must  have  cached  its  theft.  He  dug 
down  until  he  came  to  the  frozen  earth.  For  an 
hour  he  worked  and  found  nothing. 

Then  he  stopped.  Over  a  small  fire  he  melted 
snow  for  tea  and  broiled  a  slice  of  the  bacon,  which 
he  ate  with  the  few  biscuit  crumbs  he  found  in  the 
pack.  Every  particle  of  flour  that  he  could  find  he 

252 


THE   RESCUE 

scraped  up  with  his  knife  and  put  into  one  of  the 
deep  pockets  of  his  caribou  coat.  After  that  he  set 
cut  in  the  direction  in  which  he  thought  he  would 
find  Lac  Bain. 

Still  he  shouted  for  Dixon,  and  fired  an  occasional 
shot  from  his  rifle.  By  noon  he  should  have  struck 
the  lake.  Noon  came  and  passed;  the  gloom  of  a 
second  night  fell  upon  him.  He  built  himself  a 
fire,  and  ate  two-thirds  of  what  remained  of  the 
bacon.  The  handful  of  flour  in  his  pocket  he  did 
not  disturb. 

It  was  still  night  when  he  broke  his  rest  and 
struggled  on.  His  first  fears  were  gone.  In  place 
of  them,  there  filled  him  now  a  grim  sort  of  pleas 
ure.  A  second  time  he  was  battling  with  death  for 
Melisse.  And  this,  after  all,  was  not  a  very  hard 
fight  for  him.  He  had  feared  death  in  the  red 
plague,  but  he  did  not  fear  the  thought  of  this  death 
that  threatened  him  in  the  big  snows.  It  thrilled 
him,  instead,  with  a  strange  sort  of  exhilaration. 
If  he  died,  it  would  be  for  Melisse,  and  for  all  time 
she  would  remember  him  for  what  he  had  done. 

When  he  ate  the  last  bit  of  his  bacon,  he  made  up 
253 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

his  mind  what  he  would  do  when  the  end  came.  In 
the  stock  of  his  rifle  he  would  scratch  a  few  last 
words  to  Melisse.  He  even  arranged  the  words  in 
his  brain — four  of  them — "Melisse,  I  love  you." 
He  repeated  them  to  himself  as  he  staggered  on,  and 
that  night,  beside  the  fire  he  built,  he  began  by  carv 
ing  her  name. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said  softly,  "I  will  do  the  rest." 

He  was  growing  very  hungry,  but  he  did  not 
touch  the  flour.  For  six  hours  he  slept,  and  then 
drank  his  fill  of  hot  tea. 

"We  will  travel  until  day,  Jan  Thoreau,"  he  in 
formed  himself,  "and  then,  if  nothing  turns  up,  we 
will  build  our  last  camp,  and  eat  the  flour.  It  will  be 
the  last  of  us,  for  there  will  be  no  meat  above  this 
snow  for  days." 

His  snow-shoes  were  an  impediment  now,  and  he 
left  them  behind,  along  with  one  of  his  two  blankets, 
which  had  grown  to  be  like  lead  upon  his  shoulders. 
He  counted  his  cartridges — ten  of  them.  One  of 
these  he  fired  into  the  air. 

Was  that  an  echo  he  heard  ? 

A  sudden  thrill  shot  through  him.  He  strained 
254 


THE   RESCUE 

his  ears  to  catch  a  repetition  of  the  sound.    In  a  mo 
ment  it  came  again — clearly  no  echo  this  time. 

"Ledoq!"  he  cried  aloud. 

He  fired  again. 

Back  to  him  came  the  distant,  splitting  crack  of 
a  rifle.  He  forced  his  way  toward  it.  After  a  little 
he  heard  the  signal  again,  much  nearer  than  before, 
and  he  fired  in  response.  A  few  hundred  yards  far 
ther  on  he  came  to  a  low  mountain  ridge,  and  lifted 
his  voice  in  a  loud  shout.  A  shot  came  from  just 
over  the  mountain. 

Waist  deep  in  the  light  snow  he  began  the  ascent, 
dragging  himself  up  by  the  tops  of  the  slender  sap 
lings,  stopping  every  few  yards  to  half-stretch  him 
self  out  in  the  soft  mass  through  which  he  was 
struggling,  panting  with  exhaustion.  He  shouted 
when  he  gained  the  top  of  the  ridge.  Up  through 
the  white  blur  of  snow  on  the  other  side  there  came 
to  him  faintly  a  shout ;  yet,  in  spite  of  its  f aintness, 
Jan  knew  that  it  was  very  near. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Ledoq/'  he  told  him 
self,  "but  he  surely  has  food,  and  we  can  live  it  out 
until  the  storm  is  over." 

255 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

It  was  easier  going  down  the  ridge,  and  he  went 
quickly  in  the  direction  from  which  the  voice  had 
come,  until  a  mass  of  huge  boulders  loomed  up  be 
fore  him.  There  was  a  faint  odor  of  smoke  in  the 
air,  and  he  followed  it  in  among  the  rocks,  where  it 
grew  stronger. 

"Ho,  Ledoq!"  he  shouted. 

A  voice  replied  a  dozen  yards  away.  Slowly,  as 
he  advanced,  he  made  out  the  dim  shadow  of  life 
in  the  white  gloom — a  bit  of  smoke  climbing  weakly 
in  the  storm,  the  black  opening  of  a  brush  shelter — 
and  then,  between  the  opening  and  the  spiral  of 
smoke,  a  living  thing  that  came  creeping  toward 
him  on  all  fours,  like  an  animal. 

He  plunged  toward  it,  and  the  shadow  staggered 
upward,  and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for 
the  support  of  the  deep  snow.  Another  step,  and  a 
sharp  cry  fell  from  Jan's  lips.  It  was  not  Ledoq, 
but  Dixon,  who  stood  there  with  white,  starved  face 
and  staring  eyes  in  the  snow  gloom ! 

"My  God,  I  am  starving — and  dying  for  a  drink 
of  water !"  gasped  the  Englishman  chokingly,  thrust 
ing  out  his  arms.  "Thoreau,  God  be  praised — " 

256 


THE    RESCUE 

He  staggered,  and  fell  in  the  snow.  Jan  dragged 
him  back  to  the  shelter. 

"I  will  have  water  for  you — and  something  to  eat 
— very  soon,"  he  said. 

His  voice  sounded  unreal.  There  was  a  mistiness 
before  his  eyes  which  was  not  caused  by  the  storm, 
a  twisting  of  strange  shadows  that  bothered  his 
vision,  and  made  him  sway  dizzily  when  he  threw 
off  his  pack  to  stir  the  fire.  He  suspended  his  two 
small  pails  over  the  embers,  which  he  coaxed  into  a 
blaze.  Both  he  filled  with  snow ;  into  one  he  emptied 
the  handful  of  flour  that  he  had  carried  in  his  pocket 
— into  the  other  he  put  tea.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he 
carried  them  to  the  Englishman. 

Dixon  sat  up,  a  glazed  passion  filling  his  eyes.  He 
drank  the  hot  tea  greedily,  and  as  greedily  ate  the 
boiled  flour-pudding.  Jan  watched  him  hungrily 
until  the  last  crumb  of  it  was  gone.  He  refilled  the 
pails  with  snow,  added  more  tea,  and  then  rejoined 
the  Englishman.  New  life  was  already  shining  in 
Dixon's  eyes. 

"Not  a  moment  too  soon,  Thoreau,"  he  said 
thankfully,  reaching  over  to  grip  the  other's  hand. 

257 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

"Another  night  and — "  Suddenly  he  stopped. 
"Great  Heaven,  what  is  the  matter?" 

He  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  pinched  torture 
in  his  companion's  face.  Jan's  head  dropped  weakly 
upon  his  breast.  His  hands  were  icy  cold. 

"Nothing,"  he  murmured  drowsily,  "only — I'm 
starving,  too,  Dixon!"  He  recovered  himself  with 
an  effort,  and  smiled  into  Dixon's  startled  face. 
"There  is  nothing  to  eat,"  he  continued,  as  he  saw 
the  other  direct  his  gaze  toward  the  pack.  "I  gave 
you  the  last  of  the  flour.  There  is  nothing — but 
salt  and  tea."  He  rolled  over  upon  the  balsam 
boughs  with  a  restful  sigh.  "Let  me  sleep !" 

Dixon  went  to  the  pack.  One  by  one,  in  his 
search  for  food,  he  took  out  the  few  articles  that  it 
contained.  After  that  he  drank  more  tea,  crawled 
back  into  the  balsam  shelter,  and  lay  down  beside 
Jan.  It  was  broad  day  when  he  awoke,  and  he 
called  hoarsely  to  his  companion  when  he  saw  that 
the  snow  had  ceased  falling. 

Jan  did  not  stir.  For  a  moment  Dixon  leaned 
over  to  listen  to  his  breathing,  and  then  dragged 
himself  slowly  and  painfully  out  into  the  day.  The 

258 


THE   RESCUE 

fire  was  out.    A  leaden  blackness  still  filled  the  sky ; 
deep,  silent  gloom  hung  in  the  wake  of  the  storm. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  Dixon's  ears  a  sound.  It 
was  a  sound  that  would  have  been  unheard  in  the 
gentle  whispering  of  a  wind,  in  the  swaying  of  the 
spruce-tops ;  but  in  this  silence  it  fell  upon  the  starv 
ing  man's  hearing  with  a  distinctness  that  drew 
his  muscles  rigid  and  set  his  eyes  staring  about  him 
in  wild  search.  Just  beyond  the  hanging  pails  a 
moose-bird  hopped  out  upon  the  snow.  It  chirped 
hungrily,  its  big,  owl-like  eyes  scrutinizing  Dixon. 
The  man  stared  back,  fearing  to  move.  Slowly  he 
forced  his  right  foot  through  the  snow  to  the  rear 
of  his  left,  and  as  cautiously  brought  his  left  be 
hind  his  right,  working  himself  backward  step  by 
step  until  he  reached  the  shelter.  Just  inside  was  his 
rifle.  He  drew  it  out  and  sank  upon  his  knees  in 
the  snow  to  aim.  At  the  report  of  the  rifle,  Jan 
stirred  but  did  not  open  his  eyes ;  he  made  no  move 
ment  when  Dixon  called  out  in  shrill  joy  that  he 
had  killed  meat.  He  heard,  he  strove  to  arouse  him 
self,  but  something  more  powerful  than  his  own  will 
seemed  pulling  him  down  into  oblivion.  It  seemed 

259 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

an  eternity  before  he  was  conscious  of  a  voice  again. 
He  felt  himself  lifted,  and  opened  his  eyes  with  his 
head  resting  against  the  Englishman's  shoulder. 

"Drink  this,  Thoreau,"  he  heard. 

He  drank,  and  knew  that  it  was  not  tea  that  ran 
down  his  throat. 

"Whisky-jack  soup,"  he  heard  again.  "How  is 
it?" 

He  became  wide-awake.  Dixon  was  offering  him 
a  dozen  small  bits  of  meat  on  a  tin  plate,  and  he  ate 
without  questioning.  Suddenly,  when  there  were 
only  two  or  three  of  the  smallest  scraps  left,  he 
stopped. 

"Mon  Dieu,  it  was  whisky-jack!"  he  cried.  "I 
have  eaten  it  all!" 

The  young  Englishman's  white  face  grinned  at 
him. 

"I've  got  the  flour  inside  of  me,  Thoreau — you've 
got  the  moose-bird.  Isn't  that  fair?" 

The  plate  dropped  between  them.  Over  it  their 
hands  met  in  a  great,  clutching  grip,  and  up  from 
Jan's  heart  there  welled  words  which  almost  burst 
from  his  lips  in  voice,  words  which  rang  in  his  brain, 

260 


,  THE    RESCUE 

and  which  were  an  unspoken  prayer — "Melisse,  I 
thank  the  great  God  that  it  is  this  man  whom  you 
love!"  But  it  was  in  silence  that  he  staggered  to  his 
feet  and  went  out  into  the  gloom. 

"This  may  be  only  a  lull  in  the  storm/'  he  said. 
"We  must  lose  no  time.  How  long  did  you  travel 
before  you  made  this  camp?" 

"About  ten  hours,"  said  Dixon.  "I  made  due 
west  by  compass  until  I  knew  that  I  had  passed 
Lac  Bain,  and  then  struck  north." 

"Ah,  you  have  the  compass,"  cried  Jan,  his  eyes 
lighting  up.  "M'seur  Dixon,  we  are  very  near  to  the 
post  if  you  camped  so  soon!  Tell  me  which  is 
north." 

"That  is  north." 

"Then  we  go  south — south  and  east.  If  you  trav 
eled  ten  hours,  first  west  and  then  north,  we  are 
northwest  of  Lac  Bain." 

Jan  spoke  no  more,  but  got  his  rifle  from  the 
shelter  and  put  only  the  tea  and  two  pails  in  his 
pack ;  leaving  the  remaining  blanket  upon  the  snow. 
The  Englishman  followed  close  behind  him,  bending 
weakly  under  the  weight  of  his  gun.  Tediously  they 

261 


.    THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

struggled  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  as  Jan  stopped 
to  look  through  the  gray  day  about  him,  Dixon  sank 
down  into  the  snow.  When  the  other  turned  toward 
ihim  he  grinned  up  feebly  into  his  face. 

"Bushed,"  he  gasped.  "Don't  believe  I  can  make 
it  through  this  snow,  Thoreau." 

There  was  no  fear  in  his  eyes;  there  was  even  a 
cheerful  ring  in  his  voice. 

A  sudden  glow  leaped  into  Jan's  face. 

"I  know  this  ridge,"  he  exclaimed.  "It  runs 
within  a  mile  of  Lac  Bain.  You'd  better  leave  your 
rifle  behind." 

Dixon  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  Jan  helped  him. 
They  went  on  slowly,  resting  every  few  hundred 
yards,  and  each  time  that  he  rose  from  these  periods 
of  rest,  Dixon's  face  was  twisted  with  pain. 

"It's  the  flour  and  water  anchored  amidships,"  he 
smiled  grimly.  "Cramps — Ugh!" 

"We'll  make  it  by  supper-time,"  assured  Jan 
cheerfully. 

Dixon  leaned  heavily  on  his  arm. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  on  alone,"  he  urged.  "You 
could  send  help — " 

262 


THE   RESCUE 

"I  promised  Melissa  that  I  would  bring  you  back 
if  I  found  you,"  replied  Jan,  his  face  turned  away. 
"If  the  storm  broke  again,  you  would  be  lost." 

"Tell  me— tell  me—"  he  heard  Dixon  pant 
eagerly,  "did  she  send  you  to  hunt  for  me,  Tho- 
reau?" 

Something  in  the  Englishman's  voice  drew  his 
eyes  to  him.  There  was  an  excited  flush  in  his 
starved  cheeks;  his  eyes  shone. 

"Did  she  send  you?" 

Jan  struggled  hard  to  speak  calmly. 

"Not  in  words,  M'seur  Dixon.  But  I  know  that 
if  I  get  you  safely  back  to  Lac  Bain  she  will  be  very 
happy." 

Something  came  in  Dixon's  sobbing  breath  which 
Jan  did  not  hear.  A  little  later  he  stopped  and  built 
a  fire  over  which  he  melted  more  snow  and  boiled 
tea.  The  drink  stimulated  them,  and  they  went  on. 
A  little  later  still  and  Jan  hung  his  rifle  in  the  crotch 
of  a  sapling. 

"We  will  return  for  the  guns  in  a  day  or  so,"  he 
said. 

Dixon  leaned  upon  him  more  heavily  now,  and 
263 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

the  distances  they  traveled  between  resting  periods 
became  shorter  and  shorter.  Three  times  they 
stopped  to  build  fires  and  cook  tea.  It  was  night 
when  they  descended  from  the  ridge  to  the  snow- 
covered  ice  of  Lac  Bain.  It  was  past  midnight  when 
Jan  dragged  Dixon  from  the  spruce  forest  into  the 
opening  at  the  post  There  were  no  lights  burning, 
and  he  went  with  his  half -conscious  burden  to  the 
company's  store.  He  awakened  Croisset,  who  let 
them  in. 

"Take  care  of  Dixon,"  said  Jan,  "and  don't 
arouse  any  of  the  people  to-night.  It  will  be  time 
enough  to  tell  what  has  happened  in  the  morning." 

Over  the  stove  in  his  own  room  he  cooked  meat 
and  coffee,  and  for  a  long  time  sat  silent  before 
the  fire.  He  had  brought  back  Dixon.  In  the  morn 
ing  Melisse  would  know.  First  she  would  go  to  the 
Englishman,  then — then — she  would  come  to  him! 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  rude  board  table  in  the 
corner  of  his  room. 

"No,  Melisse  must  not  come  to  me  in  the  morn 
ing,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "She  must  never 
again  look  upon  Jan  Thoreau." 

264 


THE   RESCUE 

He  took  pencil  and  paper  and  wrote.  Page  after 
page  he  crumpled  in  his  hand  and  flung  into  the 
fire.  At  last,  swiftly  and  despairingly,  he  ended 
with  half  a  dozen  lines.  What  he  said  came  from 
his  heart,  in  French: 

"I  have  brought  him  back  to  you,  my  Melisse,  and 
pray  that  the  good  God  may  give  you  happiness.  I 
leave  you  the  old  violin,  and  always  when  you  play, 
it  will  tell  you  of  the  love  of  Jan  Thoreau." 

He  folded  the  page  and  sealed  it  in  one  of  the 
company's  envelopes.  Very  quietly  he  went  from 
his  room  down  into  the  deserted  store.  Without 
striking  a  light  he  found  a  new  pack,  a  few  articles 
of  food,  and  ammunition.  The  envelope,  addressed 
to  Melisse,  he  left  where  Croisset  or  the  factor 
would  find  it  in  the  morning.  His  dogs  were  housed 
in  a  shack  behind  the  store,  and  he  called  out  their 
names  softly  and  warningly  as  he  went  among  them. 
As  stealthily  as  their  master  they  trailed  behind  him 
to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  close  under  the  old 
spruce  that  guarded  the  grave  Jan  stopped,  and 
silently  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  the  little  cabin. 

265 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

The  dogs  watched  him.  Kazan,  the  one-eyed  leader, 
glared  from  him  into  the  dimness  of  the  night,  whin 
ing  softly.  A  low,  mourning  wind  swept  through 
the  spruce  tops,  and  from  Jan's  throat  there  burst 
sobbingly  words  which  he  had  heard  beside  this 
same  grave  more  than  seventeen  years  before,  when 
Williams'  choking  voice  had  risen  in  a  last  prayer 
for  the  woman. 

"May  the  great  God  care  for  Melisse!" 

He  turned  into  the  trail  upon  which  Jean  de 
Gravois  had  fought  the  Englishman,  led  his  dogs 
and  sledge  in  a  twisting  path  through  the  caribou 
swamp,  and  stood  at  last  beside  the  lob-stick  tree 
that  leaned  out  over  the  edge  of  the  white  barrens. 
With  his  knife  he  dug  out  the  papers  which  he  had 
concealed  in  that  whisky- jack  hole. 

It  was  near  dawn  when  he  recovered  the  rifle 
which  he  had  abandoned  on  the  mountain  top.  A 
little  later  it  began  to  snow.  He  was  glad,  for  it 
would  conceal  his  trail. 

For  thirteen  days  he  forced  his  dogs  through  the 
deep  snows  into  the  south.  On  the  fourteenth  they 
came  to  Le  Pas,  which  is  the  edge  of  civilization. 

266 


THE   RESCUE 

It  was  night  when  he  came  out  of  the  forest,  so  that 
he  could  see  the  faint  glow  of  lights  beyond  the 
Saskatchewan. 

For  a  few  moments,  before  crossing,  he  stopped 
his  tired  dogs  and  turned  his  face  back  into  the  grim 
desolation  of  the  North,  where  the  aurora  was  play 
ing  feebly  in  the  skies,  and  beckoning  to  him,  and 
telling  him  that  the  old  life  of  centuries  and  cen 
turies  ago  would  wait  for  him  always  at  the  dome 
of  the  earth. 

"The  good  God  bless  you,  and  keep  you,  and  care 
for  you  ever  more,  my  Melisse,"  he  whispered ;  and 
he  walked  slowly  ahead  of  his  dogs,  across  the  river, 
and  into  the  Other  World. 


267 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JACK   THORNTON 

THERE  was  music  that  night  in  Le  Pas.  Jan 
heard  it  before  he  came  to  the  first  of  the 
scattered  lights,  and  the  dogs  pricked  up  their  ears. 
Kazan,  the  one-eyed,  whined  under  his  breath,  and 
the  weight  at  Jan's  heart  grew  heavier  as  the  dog 
turned  up  his  head  to  him  in  the  starlight.  It  was 
strange  music,  nothing  like  Jan  had  ever  heard.  It 
strange  to  Kazan,  and  set  him  whining,  and  he 
his  muzzle  up  to  his  master's  touch  inquir- 
They  passed  on  like  shadows,  close  to  a  big, 
lighted  log  building  from  which  the  music  came,  and 
With  it  a  tumult  of  laughter,  of  shuffling  and  stamp 
ing  feet,  of  coarse  singing  and  loud  voices.  A  door 
opened  and  a  man  and  a  woman  came  out.  The  man 
was  cursing,  and  the  woman  was  laughing  at  him — 
laughing  as  Jan  had  never  heard  a  woman  laugh  be 
fore,  and  he  held  his  breath  as  he  listened  to  the 

268 


JACK   THORNTON 

taunting  mockery  in  it.  Others  followed  the  first 
man  and  the  first  woman.  Some  passed  quietly.  A 
woman,  escorted  between  two  men,  screamed  with 
merriment  as  she  flung  toward  his  shadowy  figure 
an  object  which  fell  with  a  crash  against  the  sledge. 
It  was  a  bottle.  Kazan  snarled.  The  trace-dogs 
slunk  close  to  the  leader's  heels.  With  a  low  word 
Jan  led  them  on. 

Close  down  to  the  river,  where  the  Saskatchewan 
swung  in  a  half -moon  to  the  south  and  west,  he 
found  a  low,  squat  building  with  a  light  hung  over 
the  door  illuminating  a  bit  of  humor  in  the  form  of 
a  printed  legend  which  said  that  it  was  "King  Ed 
ward's  Hotel."  The  scrub  bush  of  the  forest  grew 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  it,  and  in  this  bush  Jan 
tied  his  dogs  and  left  his  sledge.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  now,  when  he  had  entered  civilization,  he 
had  come  also  into  the  land  of  lock  and  bolt,  of 
robbers  and  thieves.  It  was  loneliness,  and  not  sus 
picion,  that  sent  him  back  to  unleash  Kazan  and  take 
him  with  him. 

They  entered  the  hotel,  Kazan  with  suspicious 
caution.  The  door  opened  into  a  big  room  lighted 

269 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

by  an  oil  lamp,  turned  low.  The  room  was  empty 
except  for  a  solitary  figure  sitting  in  a  chair,  facing 
a  wide  window  which  looked  into  the  north.  Mak 
ing  no  sound,  that  he  might  not  disturb  this  other 
occupant,  Jan  also  seated  himself  before  the  window. 
Kazan  laid  his  wolfish  head  across  his  master's 
knees,  his  one  eye  upon  him  steadily  and  question- 
ingly.  Never  in  all  his  years  of  life  had  Jan  felt 
the  depth  of  loneliness  that  swept  upon  him  now,  as 
he  looked  into  the  North.  Below  him  the  Saskatche 
wan  lay  white  and  silent ;  beyond  it  he  could  see  the 
dark  edge  of  the  forest,  and  far,  far,  beyond  that, 
hovering  low  in  the  sky,  the  polar  star.  It  burned 
faintly  now,  almost  like  a  thousand  other  stars  that 
he  saw,  and  the  aurora  was  only  a  fading  glow. 
Something  rose  up  in  Jan's  throat  and  choked 
him,  and  he  closed  his  eyes,  with  his  fingers  clutching 
Kazan's  head.  In  spite  of  the  battle  that  he  had 
fought,  his  mind  swept  back — back  through  the  end 
less  silent  spaces,  over  mountains  and  through  for 
ests,  swift,  resistless,  until  once  more  the  polar  star 
flashed  in  all  its  glory  over  his  head,  and  he  was  at 
Lac  Bain.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  surrender- 

270 


JACK   THORNTON 

ing  to  hunger,  exhaustion,  the  cumulative  effects  of 
his  thirteen  days'  fight  in  the  forests.  He  was  with 
Melisse  again,  with  the  old  violin,  with  the  things 
that  they  had  loved.  He  forgot  in  these  moments 
that  there  was  another  in  the  room;  he  heard  no 
sound  as  the  man  shifted  his  position  so  that  he 
looked  steadily  at  him  and  Kazan.  It  was  the  low, 
heart-broken  sob  of  grief  that  fell  from  his  own  lips 
that  awakened  him  again  to  a  consciousness  of  the 
present. 

He  jerked  himself  erect,  and  found  Kazan  with 
his  fangs  gleaming.  The  stranger  had  risen.  He 
was  standing  close  to  him,  leaning  down,  staring 
at  him  in  the  dim  lamplight,  and  as  Jan  lifted  his 
own  eyes  he  knew  that  in  the  pale,  eager  face  of  the 
man  above  him  there  was  written  a  grief  which 
might  have  been  a  reflection  of  his  own.  For  a  full 
breath  or  two  they  looked,  neither  speaking,  and  the 
hair  along  Kazan's  spine  stood  stiff.  Something 
reached  out  to  Jan  and  set  his  tired  blood  tingling. 
He  knew  that  this  man  was  not  a  forest  man.  He 
was  not  of  his  people.  His  face  bore  the  stamp  of 
the  people  to  the  south,  of  civilization.  And  yet 

271 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    BIG    SNOWS 

something  passed  between  them,  leaped  all  barriers, 
and  made  them  friends  before  they  had  spoken.  The 
stranger  reached  down  his  hand,  and  Jan  reached  up 
his.  All  of  the  loneliness,  the  clinging  to  hope,  the 
starving  desire  of  two  men  for  companionship, 
passed  in  the  long  grip  of  their  hands. 

"You  have  just  come  down,"  said  the  man,  half 
questioningly.  "That  was  your  sledge — out  there  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jan. 

The  stranger  sat  down  in  the  chair  next  to  Jan. 

"From  the  camps?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 

"What  camps,  m'sieur?" 

"The  railroad  camps,  where  they  are  putting  the 
new  line  through,  beyond  Wekusko." 

"I  know  of  no  camps,"  said  Jan  simply.  "I  know 
of  no  railroad,  except  this  that  comes  to  Le  Pas.  I 
come  from  Lac  Bain,  on  the  edge  of  the  barren 
lands." 

"You  have  never  been  down  before?"  asked  the 
stranger  softly.  Jan  wondered  at  the  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"A  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  "for  a  day.  I  have 
passed  all  of  my  life — up  there."  Jan  pointed  to  the 

272 


JACK   THORNTON 

north,  and  the  other's  eyes  turned  to  where  the  polar 
star  was  fading  low  in  the  sky. 

"And  I  have  passed  all  of  my  life  down  there" 
he  replied,  nodding  his  head  to  the  south.  "A  year 
ago  I  came  up  here  for — for  health  and  happiness," 
he  laughed  nervously.  "I  found  them  both.  But 
I'm  leaving  them.  I'm  going  back  to-morrow.  My 
name  is  Thornton/'  he  added,  holding  out  his  hand 
again.  "I  come  from  Chicago." 

"My  name  is  Thoreau — Jan  Thoreau,"  said  Jan. 
"I  have  read  of  Chicago  in  a  book,  and  have  seen 
pictures  of  it.  Is  it  larger  than  the  city  that  is  called 
Winnipeg?" 

He  looked  at  Thornton,  and  Thornton  turned  his 
head  a  little  so  that  the  light  did  not  shine  in  his  face. 
The  grip  of  his  fingers  tightened  about  Jan's  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  larger." 

"The  officers  of  the  great  company  are  at  Winni 
peg,  and  Le  Commissionaire,  are  they  not,  m'sieur  ?" 

"Of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company — yes." 

"  kfld  if  there  was  business  to  do — important  busi 
ness,  m'sieur,  would  it  not  be  best  to  go  to  Le  Com 
missionaire?"  questioned  Jan. 

273 


TH*,   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Thornton  looked  hard  at  the  tense  eagerness  in 
Jan's  face. 

"''There  are  nearer  headquarters,  at  Prince  Al 
bert/'  he  said. 

"That  is  not  far,"  exclaimed  Jan,  rising.  "And 
they  would  do  business  there — important  business  r" 
He  dropped  his  hand  to  Kazan's  head,  and  half 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"Perhaps  better  than  the  Commissioner/'  replied 
Thornton.  "It  might  depend — on  what  your  busi 


ness  is." 


To  them,  as  each  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
there  came  the  low  wailing  of  a  dog  out  in  the  night. 

"They  are  calling  for  Kazan,"  said  Jan  quietly, 
as  though  he  had  not  read  the  question  in  Thornton's 
last  words.  "Good  night,  m'sieur !" 

The  dogs  were  sitting  upon  their  haunches,  wait 
ing,  when  Jan  and  Kazan  went  back  to  them.  Jan 
drew  them  farther  back,  where  the  thick  spruce  shut 
them  out  from  the  clearing,  and  built  a  fire.  Over 
this  he  hung  his  coffee-pail  and  a  big  chunk  of 
frozen  caribou  meat,  and  tossed  frozen  fish  to  the 

274 


JACK   THORNTON 

hungry  dogs.  Then  he  pulled  down  spruce  boughs 
and  spread  his  heavy  blankets  out  near  the  fire,  and 
waited  for  the  coffee  and  meat  to  cook.  The  huskies 
were  through  when  he  began  eating,  and  they  lay 
on  their  bellies,  close  about  his  feet,  ready  to  snap 
at  the  scraps  which  he  threw  them.  Jan  noticed,  as 
he  ate,  that  there  was  left  in  them  none  of  the  old, 
fierce,  fighting  spirit.  They  did  not  snap  or  snarl. 
There  was  no  quarreling  when  he  threw  bits  of  meat 
to  them,  and  he  found  himself  wondering  if  they, 
too,  were  filled  with  the  sickness  which  was  eating 
at  his  own  heart. 

With  this  sickness,  this  deathly  feeling  of  loneli 
ness  and  heartache,  there  had  entered  into  Jan  now 
a  strange  sensation  that  was  almost  excitement — an 
eagerness  to  fasten  the  dogs  in  their  traces,  to  hurry 
on,  in  spite  of  his  exhaustion,  to  that  place  which 
Thornton  had  told  him  of — Prince  Albert,  and  to 
free  himself  there,  for  all  time,  of  the  thing  which 
had  oppressed  him  since  that  night  many  years  ago, 
when  he  had  staggered  into  Lac  Bain  to  play  his  vio 
lin  as  Cummins'  wife  died.  He  reached  inside  his 
skin  coat  and  there  he  felt  papers  which  he  had  taken 

275 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS    - 

from  the  hole  in  the  lob-stick  tree.  They  were  safe. 
For  twenty  years  he  had  guarded  them.  To-morrow 
he  would  take  them  to  the  great  company  at  Prince 
Albert.  And  after  that — after  he  had  done  this 
thing,  what  would  there  remain  in  life  for  Jan 
Thoreau?  Perhaps  the  company  might  take  him, 
and  he  would  remain  in  civilization.  That  would  be 
best — for  him.  He  would  fight  against  the  call  of 
his  forests  as  years  and  years  ago  he  had  fought 
against  that  call  of  the  Other  World  that  had  filled 
him  with  unrest  for  a  time.  He  had  killed  that.  If 
he  did  return  to  his  forests,  he  would  go  far  to  the 
west,  or  far  to  the  east.  No  one  that  had  ever 
known  him  would  hear  again  of  Jan  Thoreau. 

Kazan  had  crept  to  his  blanket,  daring  to  en 
croach  upon  it  inch  by  inch,  until  his  great  wolf -head 
lay  upon  Jan's  arm.  It  was  ten  years  ago  that  Jan 
had  taken  Kazan,  a  little  half -blind  puppy  that  he 
and  Melisse  had  chosen  from  a  litter  of  half  a  dozen 
stronger  brothers  and  sisters.  Kazan  was  all  that 
was  left  to  him  now.  He  loved  the  other  dogs,  but 
they  were  not  like  Kazan.  He  tightened  his  arm 
about  the  dog's  head.  Exhaustion,  and  the  warmth 

276 


JACK   THORNTON 

of  the  fire,  made  him  drowsy,  and,  after  a  time,  he 
slept,  with  his  head  thrown  back  against  the  tree. 

Something  awoke  him,  hours  afterward.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  and  found  that  the  fire  was  still 
burning  brightly.  On  the  far  side  of  it,  beyond  the 
dogs,  sat  Thornton.  A  look  at  the  sky,  where  the 
stars  were  dying,  and  Jan  knew  that  it  was  just 
before  the  gray  break  of  dawn.  He  sat  upright. 
Thornton  laughed  softly  at  him,  and  puffed  out 
clouds  of  smoke  from  his  pipe. 

"You  were  freezing,"  he  said,  as  Jan  stared,  "and 
sleeping  like  a  dead  man.  I  waited  for  you  back 
there,  and  then  hunted  you  up.  You  know — I 
thought — "  He  hesitated,  and  knocked  the  ash 
from  his  pipe  bowl.  Then  he  looked  frankly  and 
squarely  at  Jan.  "See  here,  old  man,  if  you're  hard 
up — had  trouble  of  any  sort — bad  luck — got  no 
money — won't  you  let  me  help  you  out  ?" 

"Thank  you,  m'sieur — I  have  money,"  said  Jan. 
"I  prefer  to  sleep  outside  with  the  dogs.  Mon  Dieu, 
I  guess  I  would  have  been  stiff  with  the  frost  if 
you  had  not  come.  You  have  been  here — all  night?" 

Thornton  nodded. 

277 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

"And  it  is  morning,"  exclaimed  Jan,  rising  and 
looking  above  the  spruce  tops.  "You  are  kind, 
m'sieur.  I  wish  I  might  do  as  much  for  you." 

"You  can/'  said  Thornton  quietly.  "Where  are 
you  going — from  here?" 

"To  the  company's  offices  at  Prince  Albert.  We 
will  start  within  an  hour." 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you?"  Thornton  asked. 

"With  pleasure!"  cried  Jan.  "But  it  will  be  a 
hard  journey,  m'sieur.  I  must  hurry,  and  you  may 
not  be  accustomed  to  running  behind  the  dogs." 

Thornton  rose  and  stretched  out  a  hand. 

"It  can't  be  too  hard  for  me,"  he  said.  "I 
wish—" 

He  stopped,  and  something  in  his  low  voice  made 
Jan  look  straight  into  his  eyes.  For  a  moment  they 
gazed  at  each  other  in  silence,  and  again  Jan  saw  in 
Thornton's  face  the  look  of  loneliness  and  grief 
which  he  had  first  seen  in  the  half  gloom  of  the 
hotel.  It  was  the  suppressed  note  in  Thornton's 
voice,  of  despair  almost,  that  struck  him  deepest,  and 
made  him  hold  the  other's  hand  a  moment  longer. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  pack  upon  the  sledge. 

278 


JACK   THORNTON 

"I've  got  meat  and  coffee  and  hard  biscuits,"  he 
said.  "Will  you  have  breakfast  with  me?" 

That  day  Jan  and  Thornton  made  fifty  miles 
westward  over  the  level  surface  of  the  Saskeram, 
and  camped  again  on  the  Saskatchewan.  The  sec 
ond  day  they  followed  the  river,  passed  the 
Sipanock,  and  struck  south  and  west  over  the  snow- 
covered  ice  for  Prince  Albert.  It  was  early  after 
noon  of  the  fourth  day  when  at  last  they  came  to  the 
town. 

"We  will  go  to  the  offices  of  the  great  company," 
said  Jan.  "We  will  lose  no  time." 

It  was  Thornton  now  who  guided  him  to  the 
century-old  building  at  the  west  edge  of  the  town. 
It  was  Thornton  who  led  him  into  an  office  filled 
mostly  with  young  women,  who  were  laboring  at 
clicking  machines;  and  it  was  Thornton  who  pre 
sented  a  square  bit  of  white  card  to  a  gray-haired 
man  at  a  desk,  who,  after  reading  it,  rose  from 
his  chair,  bowed,  and  shook  hands  with  him.  And 
a  few  moments  later  a  door  opened,  and  Jan  Tho- 
reau,  alone,  passed  through  it,  his  heart  quivering, 

279 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

his  breath  choking  him,  his  hand  clutching  at  the 
papers  in  his  breast  pocket. 

Outside  Thornton  waited.  An  hour  passed  and 
still  the  door  did  not  reopen.  The  man  at  the  desk 
glanced  curiously  at  Thornton.  Two  girls  at  type 
writers  exchanged  whispered  opinions  as  to  who 
might  be  this  wild-looking  creature  from  the  north 
who  was  taking  up  an  hour  of  the  sub-commission 
er's  time.  Nearly  two  hours  passed  before  Jan 
appeared.  Thornton,  still  patient,  rose  as  the  door 
opened.  His  eyes  first  encountered  the  staring  face 
of  the  sub-commissioner.  Then  Jan  came  out.  He 
had  aged  five  years  in  two  hours.  There  was  a  tired 
stoop  to  his  shoulders,  a  strange  pallor  in  his  cheeks. 
To  Thornton  his  thin  face  seemed  to  have  grown 
thinner.  With  bowed  head,  looking  nowhere  but 
ahead  of  him,  Jan  passed  on,  and  as  the  last  door 
opened  to  let  them  out  into  the  pale  winter  sun, 
Thornton  heard  the  muffled  sobbing  of  his  breath. 
His  fingers  gripped  Jan's  arm,  his  eyes  were  blazing. 

"If  you're  getting  the  wrong  end  of  anything  up 
there,"  he  cried  fiercely;  "if  you're  in  trouble,  and 
they're  taking  the  blood  out  of  you — tell  me  and  I'll 

280 


JACK   THORNTON 

put  the  clamps  on  'em,  so  'elp  me  God!  They'll 
buck  the  devil  when  they  buck  Jack  Thornton,  and 
if  it  needs  money  to  show  'em  so,  I've  got  half  a 
million  to  teach  'em  the  game !" 

"Thanks,  m'sieur,"  struggled  Jan,  striving  to  keep 
i  lump  out  of  his  throat.  "It's  nothing  like  that 
I  don't  need  money.  Half  a  million  would  just 
about  buy — what  I've  given  away  up  there." 

He  clutched  his  hand  for  an  instant  to  the  empty 
pocket  where  the  papers  had  been. 


283 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TEMPTATION 

THAT  night,  leaving  Thornton  still  at  supper  in 
the  little  old  Windsor  Hotel,  Jan  slipped  away, 
and  with  Kazan  at  his  heels,  crossed  the  frozen  Sas 
katchewan  to  the  spruce  forest  on  the  north  shore. 
He  wanted -to  be  alone,  to  think,  to  fight  with  himself 
against  a  desire  which  was  almost  overpowering  him. 
Once,  long  ago,  he  had  laid  his  soul  bare  to  Jean  de 
Gravois,  and  Jean  had  given  him  comfort.  To-night 
he  longed  to  go  to  Thornton,  as  he  had  gone  to  Jean, 
and  to  tell  him  the  same  story,  and  what  had  passed 
that  day  in  the  office  of  the  sub-commissioner.  In  his 
heart  there  had  grown  something  for  Thornton  that 
was  stronger  than  friendship — something  that 
would  have  made  him  fight  for  him,  and  die  for  him, 
as  he  would  have  fought  and  died  for  Jean  de 
Gravois.  It  was  a  feeling  cemented  by  a  belief 
that  something  was  troubling  Thornton — that  he, 

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TEMPTATION 

too,  was  filled  with  a  loneliness  and  a  grief  which  he 
was  trying  to  conceal.  And  yet  he  fought  to  restrain 
himself  from  confiding  in  his  new  friend.  It  would 
do  no  good,  he  knew,  except  by  relieving  him  of  a 
part  of  his  mental  burden.  He  walked  along  the 
shore  of  the  river  and  recrossed  it  again  near  the 
company's  offices.  All  were  dark  with  the  exception 
of  the  sub-commissioner's  room.  In  .that  there 
glowed  a  light.  The  sub-commissioner  was  keeping 
his  promise.  He  was  working.  He  worked  until  late, 
for  Jan  came  back  two  hours  after  and  saw  the  light 
still  there. 

A  week — it  might  be  ten  days,  the  sub-com 
missioner  had  told  him,  and  it  would  be  over.  Al 
ways  something  in  the  north  drew  Jan's  eyes,  and  he 
looked  there  now,  wondering  what  would  happen  to 
him  after  that  week  was  over. 

Lights  were  out  and  people  were  in  bed  when  he 
and  Kazan  returned  to  the  hotel.  But  Thornton  was 
up,  sitting  by  himself  in  the  gloom,  as  Jan  had  first 
seen  him  at  Le  Pas.  Jan  sat  down  beside  him. 
There  was  an  uneasy  tremor  in  Thornton's  voice 
when  he  said: 

283 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

"Jan,  did  you  ever  love  a  woman — love  her  until 
you  were  ready  and  willing  to  die  for  her  ?" 

The  suddenness  of  the  question  wrung  the  truth 
from  Jan's  lips  in  a  low,  choking  voice.  For  an 
instant  he  thought  that  Thornton  must  have  guessed 
his  secret. 

"Yes,  m'sieur." 

Thornton  leaned  toward  him,  gripping  his  knees, 
and  the  misery  in  his  face  was  deeper  than  Jan  had 
ever  seen  it  before. 

"I  love  a  woman — like  that/'  he  went  on  tensely. 
"A  girl — not  a  woman,  and  she  is  one  of  your  people, 
Jan — of  the  north,  as  innocent  as  a  flower,  more 
beautiful  to  me  than — than  all  the  women  I  have 
ever  seen  before.  She  is  at  Oxford  House.  I  am 
going  home  to — to  save  myself." 

"Save  yourself !"  cried  Jan.  "Mon  Dieu,  m'sieur 
— does  she  not  love  you?" 

"She  would  follow  me  to  the  end  of  the  earth !" 

"Then—" 

Thornton  straightened  himself  and  wiped  his  pale 
face.  Suddenly  he  rose  to  his  'feet  and  motioned 
for  Jan  to  follow  him.  He  walked  swiftly  out  into 


TEMPTATION 

the  night,  and  still  faster  after  that,  until  they 
passed  beyond  the  town.  From  where  he  stopped 
they  could  look  over  the  forests  far  into  the  pale 
light  of  the  south. 

"That's  hell  for  me!"  said  Thornton,  pointing. 
"It's  what  we  call  civilization — but  it's  mostly  hell, 
and  it's  all  hell  for  me.  It's  a  hell  of  big  cities,  of 
strife,  of  blood-letting,  of  wickedness.  I  never  knew 
how  great  a  hell  it  was  until  I  came  up  here — among 
you.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  stay — always!" 

"You  love  her,"  breathed  Jan.     "You  can  stay." 

"I  can't/'  groaned  Thornton.    "I  can't— unless— " 

"What,  m'sieur?" 

"Unless  I  lose  everything — but  her." 

Jan's  fingers  trembled  as  they  sought  Thornton's 
hand. 

"And  everything  is — is — nothing  when  you  give 
it  for  love  and  happiness,"  he  urged.  "The  great 
God,  I  know — " 

"Everything,"  cried  Thornton.  "Don't  you  un 
derstand?  I  said  everything!"  He  turned  almost 
fiercely  upon  his  companion.  "I'd  give  up  my  name 
•^-for  her.  I'd  bury  myself  back  there  in  the  forests 

285 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    BIG    SNOWS 

and  never  go  out  of  them — for  her.  I'd  give  up 
fortune,  friends,  lose  myself  for  ever — for  her.  But 
I  can't.  Good  God,  don't  you  understand  ?" 

Jan  stared.     His  eyes  grew  large  and  dark. 

"I've  spent  ten  years  of  worse  than  hell  down 
there — with  a  woman,"  went  on  Thornton.  "It 
happens  among  us — frequently,  this  sort  of  hell. 
I  came  up  here  to  get  out  of  it  for  a  time.  You 
know — now.  There  is  a  woman  down  there  who 
— who  is  my  wife.  She  would  be  glad  if  I  never  re 
turned.  She  is  happy  now,  when  I  am  away,  and  I 
have  been  happy — for  a  time.  I  know  what  love  is. 
I  have  felt  it.  I  have  lived  it.  God  forgive  me,  but 
I  am  almost  tempted  to  go  back — to  her!" 

He  stopped  at  the  change  which  had  come  in  Jan, 
who  stood  as  straight  and  as  still  as  the  blank  spruce 
behind  them,  with  only  his  eyes  showing  that  there 
was  life  in  him.  Those  eyes  held  Thornton's.  They 
burned  upon  him  through  the  gray  gloom  as  he  had 
never  seen  human  eyes  burn  before.  He  waited, 
half  startled,  and  Jan  spoke.  In  his  voice  there  was 
nothing  of  that  which  Thornton  saw  in  his  eyes. 
It  was  low,  and  soft,  and  though  it  had  that  which 

286 


TEMPTATION 

rung  like  steel,  Thornton  could  not  have  under 
stood  or  feared  it  more. 

"M'sieur,  how  far  have  you  gone — with  her?" 
Thornton    understood    and    advanced    with    his 
hands  reaching  out  to  Jan. 

"Only  as  far  as  one  might  go  with  the  purest 
thing  on  earth,"  he  said.  "I  have  sinned — in  loving 
her,  and  in  letting  her  love  me,  but  that  is  all,  Jan 
Thoreau.  I  swear  that  is  all !" 

"And  you  are  going  back  into  the  south  ?" 
"Yes,  I  am  going  back  into  the  south." 
The  next  day  Thornton  did  not  go.  He  made  no 
sign  of  going  on  the  second  day.  So  it  was  with  the 
third,  the  fourth,  and  the  fifth.  On  each  of  these 
days  Jan  went  once,  in  the  afternoon,  to  the  office  of 
the  sub-commissioner,  and  Thornton  always  accom 
panied  him.  At  times,  when  Jan  was  not  looking, 
there  was  a  hungry  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  followed 
the  other's  movements,  and  once  or  twice  Jan  caught 
what  was  left  of  this  look  when  he  turned  unex^ 
pectedly.  He  knew  what  was  in  Thornton's  mind, 
and  he  pitied  him,  grieved  with  him  in  his  own  heart 
until  his  own  secret  almost  wrung  itself  from  his 

287 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

lips.  Somehow,  in  a  way  that  he  could  not  under 
stand,  Thornton's  sacrifice  to  honor,  and  his  despair, 
gave  Jan  strength,  and  a  hundred  times  he  asked 
himself  if  a  confession  of  his  own  misery  would  do 
as  much  for  the  other.  He  repeated  this  thought  to 
himself  again  and  again  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
ninth  day,  when  he  went  to  the  sub-commissioner's 
office  alone.  This  time  Thornton  had  remained  be 
hind.  He  had  left  him  in  a  gloomy  corner  of  the 
hotel  room  from  which  he  had  not  looked  up  when 
Jan  went  out  with  Kazan. 

This  ninth  day  was  the  last  day  for  Jan  Thoreau. 
In  a  dazed  sort  of  way  he  listened  as  the  sub-commis 
sioner  told  him  that  the  work  was  ended.  They 
shook  hands.  It  was  dark  when  Jan  came  out  from 
the  company's  offices,  dark  with  a  pale  gloom 
through  which  the  stars  were  beginning  to  glow — 
with  a  ghostly  gloom,  lightened  still  more  in  the 
north  with  the  rising  fires  of  the  northern  lights. 
Alone  Jan  stood  for  a  few  moments  close  down  to 
the  river.  Across  from  him  was  the  forest,  silent, 
black,  reaching  to  the  end  of  the  earth,  and  over  it, 
like  a  signal  light,  beckoning  him  back  to  his  world, 

288 


TEMPTATION 

the  aurora  sent  out  its  shafts  of  red  and  gold.  And 
as  he  listened  there  came  to  him  faintly  a  distant 
wailing  sound  that  he  knew  was  the  voice  from  that 
world,  and  at  the  sound  the  hair  rose  along  Kazan's 
spine,  and  he  whined  deep  down  in  his  throat.  Jan's 
breath  grew  quicker,  his  blood  warmer.  Over  there 
— across  the  river — his  world  was  calling  to  him, 
and  he,  Jan  Thoreau,  was  now  free  to  go.  This 
very  night  he  would  bury  himself  in  the  forest  again, 
and  when  he  lay  down  to  sleep  it  would  be  with  his 
beloved  stars  above  him,  and  the  winds  whispering 
sympathy  and  brotherhood  to  him  in  the  spruce 
tops.  He  would  go — now.  He  would  say  good-by 
to  Thornton — and  go. 

He  found  himself  running,  and  Kazan  ran  beside 
him.  He  was  breathless  when  he  came  to  the  one 
lighted  street  of  the  town.  He  hurried  to  the  hotel 
and  found  Thornton  sitting  where  he  had  left  him. 

"It  is  ended,  m'sieur,"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice.  "It 
is  over,  and  I  am  going.  I  am  going  to-night." 

Thornton  rose.    "To-night,"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  to-night — now.  I  am  going  to  pick  up  my 
things.  Will  you  come  ?" 

289 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

He  went  ahead  of  Thornton  to  the  bare  little  room 
in  which  he  had  slept  while  at  the  hotel.  He  did  not 
notice  the  change  in  Thornton  until  he  had  lighted  a 
lamp.  Thornton  was  looking  at  him  doggedly. 
There  was  an  unpleasant  look  in  his  face,  a  flush 
about  his  eyes,  a  rigid  tenseness  in  the  muscles  of 
his  jaws. 

"And  I — I,  too,  am  going  to-night,"  he  said. 

'Into  the  South,  m'sieur?" 

"No,  into  the  North"  There  was  a  fierceness  in 
Thornton's  emphasis.  He  stood  opposite  Jan,  lean 
ing  over  the  table  on  which  the  light  was  placed. 
"I've  broken  loose,"  he  went  on.  "I'm  not  going 
south — back  to  that  hell  of  mine.  I'm  never  going 
south  again.  I'm  dead  down  there — dead  for  all 
time.  They'll  never  hear  of  me  again.  They  can  have 
my  fortune — everything.  I'm  going  North.  I'm  go* 
ing  to  live  with  you  people — and  God — and  her!" 

Jan  sank  into  a  chair,  Thornton  sat  down  in  one 
across  from  him. 

"I  am  going  back  to  her,"  he  repeated.  "No  one 
will  ever  know." 

He  could  not  account  for  the  look  in  Jan's  eyes 
290 


TEMPTATION 

nor  for  the  nervous  twitching  of  the  lithe  brown 
hands  that  reached  half  across  the  table.  But  Kazan's 
one  eye  told  him  more  than  Thornton  could  guess, 
and  in  response  to  it  that  ominous  shivering  wave 
rase  along  his  spine.  Thornton  would  never  know 
that  Jan's  fingers  twitched  for  an  instant  in  their  old 
mad  desire  to  leap  at  a  human  throat. 

"You  will  not  do  that,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  replied  Thornton.  "I  have  made  up 
my  mind.  Nothing  can  stop  me  but — death." 

"There  is  one  other  thing  that  can  stop  you,  and 
will,  m'sieur,"  said  Jan  as  quietly  as  before.  "I,  Jan 
Thoreau,  will  stop  you." 

Thornton  rose  slowly,  staring  down  into  Jan's 
face.  The  flush  about  his  eyes  grew  deeper. 

"I  will  stop  you,"  repeated  Jan,  rising  also.  "And 
I  am  not  death." 

He  went  to  Thornton  and  placed  his  two  hands 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  in  his  eyes  there  glowed  now 
that  gentle  light  which  had  made  Thornton  love  him 
as  he  had  loved  no  other  man  on  earth. 

"M'sieur,  I  will  stop  you,"  he  said  again,  speaking 
as  though  to  a  brother.  "Sit  down.  I  am  going  to 

201 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  BIG  SNOWS 

tell  you  something.  And  when  I  have  told  you  this 
you  will  take  my  hand,  and  you  will  say,  'Jan  Tho- 
reau,  I  thank  the  Great  God  that  something  like  this 
has  happened  before,  and  that  it  has  come  to  my  ears 
in  time  to  save  the  one  I  love.'  Sit  down,  m'sieur." 


292 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
JAN'S  STORY 

JAN  had  aged  five  years  during  those  two  hours 
in  the  office  of  the  sub-commissioner;  he  aged 
now  as  Thornton  looked  at  him.  There  came  the 
same  tired,  hopeless  glow  into  his  eyes,  the  same 
tense  lines  in  his  face.  And  yet,  quickly,  he  changed 
as  he  had  not  changed  on  that  afternoon.  Two  livid 
spots  began  to  burn  in  his  cheeks  as  he  sat  down  op 
posite  Thornton.  He  turned  the  light  low,  and  his 
eyes  glowed  more  darkly  and  with  an  animal-like 
luster  in  the  half  gloom.  Something  in  him  now,  a 
quivering,  struggling  passion  that  lay  behind  those 
eyes,  held  Thornton  white  and  silent. 

"M'sieur,"  he  began  in  the  low  voice  which 
Thornton  was  beginning  to  understand,  "I  am  go 
ing  to  tell  you  something  which  I  have  told  to  but 
two  other  human  beings.  It  is  the  story  of  another 
man — a  man  from  civilization,  like  you,  who  came 

293 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

up  into  this  country  of  ours  years  and  years  ago, 
and  who  met  a  woman,  as  you  have  met  this  girl  at 
Oxford  House,  and  who  loved  her  as  you  love  this 
one,  and  perhaps  more.  It  is  singular  that  the  case 
should  be  so  similar,  m'sieur,  and  it  is  because  of 
this  that  I  believe  Our  Blessed  Lady  gives  me  cour 
age  to  tell  it  to  you.  For  this  man,  like  you,  left  a 
wife — and  two  children — when  he  came  into  the 
North.  M'sieur,  I  pray  the  Great  God  to  forgive 
him,  for  he  left  a  third  child — unborn." 

Jan  leaned  upon  his  hand  so  that  it  shaded  his  face. 

"It  is  not  so  much  of  that  as  of  what  followed 
that  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  m'sieur,"  he  went  on. 
"It  was  a  beautiful  love — on  the  woman's  part,  and 
it  would  have  been  a  beautiful  love  on  the  man's 
part  if  it  had  been  pure.  For  her  he  gave  up  every 
thing,  even  his  God — as  you  would  give  up  every 
thing — and  your  God — for  this  girl  at  Oxford 
House.  M'sieur,  I  will  speak  mostly  of  the  woman 
now.  She  was  beautiful.  She  was  one  of  the  three 
most  beautiful  things  that  God  ever  placed  in  our 
world,  and  she  loved  this  man.  She  married  him, 
believed  in  him,  was  ready  to  die  for  him,  to  follow 

294 


JAN'S    STORY 

him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  as  our  women  will  do 
for  the  men  they  love.  God  in  Heaven,  can  you  not 
guess  what  happened,  m'sieur?  A  child  was  born!" 

So  fiercely  did  Jan  cry  out  the  words  that  Thorn 
ton  jerked  back  as  though  a  blow  had  been  struck  at 
him  from  out  of  the  gloom. 

"A  child  was  born!"  repeated  Jan,  and  Thornton 
heard  his  nails  digging  in  the  table.  "That  was  the 
first  curse  of  God — a  child !  La  Charogne — les  betes 
de  charogne — that  is  what  we  call  them — beasts  of 
carrion  and  carrion  eaters,  breeders  of  devils  and 
sin !  Mon  Dieu,  that  is  what  happened !  A  child  was 
born,  with  the  curse  of  God  upon  him!" 

Jan  stopped,  his  nails  digging  deeper,  his  breath 
escaping  from  him  as  though  he  had  been  running. 

"Down  in  your  world  he  would  have  grown  up  a 
man,"  he  continued,  speaking  more  calmly.  "I  have 
heard  that — since.  It  is  common  down  there  to  be  a 
two-legged  carrion — a  man  or  a  woman  born  out  of 
wedlock.  I  have  been  told  so,  and  that  it  is  a  curse 
not  without  hope.  But  here  it  is  different.  The  curse 
never  dies.  It  follows,  day  after  day,  year  after 
year.  And  this  child — more  unfortunate  than  the 

295 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

wild  things,  was  born  one  of  them.  Do  you  under 
stand,  m'sieur?  If  the  winds  had  whispered  the 
secret  nothing  would  have  come  near  him — the  In 
dian  women  would  sooner  have  touched  the  plague 
• — he  would  have  been  an  outcast,  despised  as  he 
grew  older,  pointed  at  and  taunted,  called  names 
which  are  worse  than  those  called  to  the  lowest  and 
meanest  dogs.  That  is  what  it  means  to  be  born 
under  that  curse — up  here." 

He  waited  for  Thornton  to  speak,  but  the  other 
sat  silent  and  moveless  across  the  table. 

"The  curse  worked  swiftly,  m'sieur.  It  came  first 
— in  remorse — to  the  man.  It  gnawed  at  his  soul,  ate 
him  alive,  and  drove  him  from  place  to  place  with 
the  woman  and  the  child.  The  purity  and  love  of  ths 
woman  added  to  his  suffering,  and  at  last  he  came  t® 
know  that  the  hand  of  God  had  fallen  upon  his  head. 
The  woman  saw  his  grief  but  did  not  know  the  rea 
son  for  it.  And  so  the  curse  first  came  to  her.  They 
went  north — far  north,  above  the  Barren  Lands, 
and  the  curse  followed  there.  It  gnawed  at  his  life 
until — he  died.  That  was  seven  years  after  the  child 
was  born." 

296 


JAN'S    STORY 

The  oil  lamp  sputtered  and  began  to  smoke,  and 
with  a  quick  movement  Jan  turned  the  wick  down 
until  they  were  left  in  darkness. 

"M'sieur,  it  was  then  that  the  curse  began  to  fall 
upon  the  woman  and  the  child.  Do  you  not  believe 
that  about  the  sins  of  the  fathers  falling  upon  others  ? 
Mon  Dieu,  it  is  so — it  is  so.  It  came  in  many  small 
ways — and  then — the  curse — it  came  suddenly — like 
this."  Jan's  voice  came  in  a  hissing  whisper  now. 
Thornton  could  feel  his  hot  breath  as  he  leaned  over 
the  table,  and  in  the  darkness  Jan's  eyes  shone  like 
two  coals  of  fire.  "It  came  like  this!"  panted  Jan. 
"There  was  a  new  missioner  at  the  post — a — a  Chris 
tian  from  the  South,  and  he  was  a  great  friend  to 
the  woman,  and  preached  God,  and  she  believed  him. 
The  boy  was  very  young,  and  saw  things,  but  did  not 
understand  at  first.  He  knew,  afterward,  that  the 
missioner  loved  his  mother's  beauty,  and  that  he 
tried  hard  to  win  it — and  failed,  for  the  woman,  un 
til  death,  would  love  only  the  one  to  whom  she  had 
given  herself  first.  Great  God,  it  happened  then — 
one  night  when  every  soul  was  about  the  big  fires  at 
the  caribou  roast,  and  there  was  no  one  near  the 

297 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    BIG    SNOWS 

lonely  little  cabin  where  the  boy  and  his  mother 
lived.  The  boy  was  at  the  feast,  but  he  ran  home — 
with  a  bit  of  dripping  meat  as  a  gift  for  his  mother 
— and  he  heard  her  cries,  and  ran  in  to  be  struck 
down  by  the  missioner.  It  happened  then,  and  even 
the  boy  knew,  and  followed  the  man,  shrieking  that 
he  had  killed  his  mother."  There  was  a  terrible 
calmness  now  in  Jan's  voice.  "M'sieur,  it  was  true. 
She  wasted  away  like  a  flower  after  that  night.  She 
died,  and  left  the  boy  alone  with  the  curse.  And 
that  boy,  m'sieur,  was  Jan  Thoreau.  The  woman 
was  his  mother." 

There  was  silence  now,  a  dead,  pulseless  quiet, 
broken  after  a  moment  by  a  movement.  It  was 
Thornton,  groping  across  the  table.  Jan  felt  his 
hands  touch  his  arm.  They  groped  farther  in  the 
darkness,  until  Jan  Thoreau's  hands  were  clasped 
tightly  in  Thornton's. 

"And  that — is  all  ?"  he  questioned  hoarsely. 

"No,  it  is  but  the  beginning,"  said  Jan  softly. 
"The  curse  has  followed  me,  m'sieur,  until  I  am  the 
unhappiest  man  in  the  world.  To-day  I  have  done 
all  that  is  to  be  done.  When  my  father  died  he  left 

298 


JAN'S    STORY 

papers  which  my  mother  was  to  give  to  me  when  I 
had  attained  manhood.  When  she  died  they  came 
to  me.  She  knew  nothing  of  that  which  was  in  them, 
and  I  am  glad.  For  they  told  the  story  that  I  have 
told  to  you,  m'sieur,  and  from  his  grave  my  father 
prayed  to  me  to  make  what  restitution  I  could. 
When  he  came  into  the  North  for  good  he  brought 
with  him  most  of  his  fortune — which  was  large, 
m'sieur — and  placed  it  where  no  one  would  ever 
find  it — in  the  stock  of  the  Great  Company.  A  half 
of  it,  he  said,  should  be  mine.  The  other  half  he 
asked  me  to  return  to  his  children,  and  to  his  real 
wife,  if  she  were  living.  I  have  done  more  than  that, 
m'sieur.  I  have  given  up  all — for  none  of  it  is  mine. 
A  half  will  go  to  the  two  children  whom  he  deserted. 
The  other  half  will  go  to  the  child  that  was  unborn. 
The  mother — is — dead." 

After  a  time  Thornton  said, 

"There  is  more,  Jan." 

"Yes,  there  is  more,  m'sieur/5  said  Jan.  "So  much 
more  that  if  I  were  to  tell  it  to  you  it  would  not  be 
hard  for  you  to  understand  why  Jan  Thoreau  is  the 
unhappiest  man  in  the  world.  I  have  told  you  that 

299 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

this  is  but  the  beginning.  I  have  not  told  you  of 
how  the  curse  has  followed  me  and  robbed  me  of  all 
that  is  greatest  in  life — how  it  has  haunted  me  day 
and  night,  m'sieur,  like  a  black  spirit,  destroying  my 
hopes,  turning  me  at  last  into  an  outcast,  without 
people,  without  friends,  without — that — which  you, 
too,  will  give  up  in  this  girl  at  Oxford  House. 
M'sieur,  am  I  right?  You  will  not  **o  back  to  her. 
You  will  go  south,  and  some  day  the  Great  God  will 
reward  you." 

He  heard  Thornton  rising  in  the  dark. 

"Shall  I  strike  a  light,  m'sieur?" 

"No,"  said  Thornton  close  to  him.  In  the  gloom 
their  hands  met.  There  was  a  change  in  the  other's 
voice  now,  something  of  pride,  of  triumph,  of  a 
glory  just  achieved.  "Jan,"  he  said  softly,  "I  thank 
you  for  bringing  me  face  to  face  with  a  God  like 
yours.  I  have  never  met  Him  before.  We  send  mis 
sionaries  up  to  save  you,  we  look  upon  you  as  wild 
and  savage  and  with  only  half  a  soul — and  we  are 
blind.  You  have  taught  me  more  than  has  ever  been 
preached  into  me,  and  this  great,  glorious  world  of 
yours  is  sending  me  back  a  better  man  for  having 

300 


JAN'S    STORY 

come  into  it.  I  am  going — south.  Some  day  I  will 
return,  and  I  will  be  one  of  this  world,  and  one  of 
your  people.  I  will  come,  and  I  will  bring  no  curse. 
If  I  could  send  this  word  to  her,  ask  her  forgiveness, 
tell  her  what  I  have  almost  been  and  that  I  still  have 
hope — faith — I  could  go  easier  down  into  that  other 
world/' 

"You  can,"  said  Jan.  "I  will  take  this  word  for 
you,  m'sieur,  and  I  will  take  more,  for  I  will  tell  her 
what  it  has  been  the  kind  fate  for  Jan  Thoreau  to 
find  in  the  heart  of  M'sieur  Thornton.  She  is  one 
of  my  people,  and  she  will  forgive,  and  love  you 
more  for  what  you  have  done.  For  this,  m'sieur,  is 
what  the  Cree  god  has  given  to  his  people  as  the 
honor  of  the  great  snows.  She  will  still  love  you, 
and  if  there  is  to  be  hope  it  will  burn  in  her  breast, 
too.  M'sieur — " 

Something  like  a  sob  broke  through  Thornton's 
lips  as  he  moved  back  through  the  darkness. 

"And  you — I  will  find  you  again?" 

"They  will  know  where  I  go  from  Oxford  House. 
I  will  leave  word — with  her"  said  Jan. 

"Good-by,"  said  Thornton  huskily. 
301 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Jan  listened  until  his  footsteps  had  died  away,  and 
for  a  long  time  after  that  he  sat  with  his  head  buried 
in  his  arms  upon  the  little  table.  And  Kazan,  whin 
ing  softly,  seemed  to  know  that  in  the  darkened 
room  had  come  to  pass  the  thing  which  broke  at  last 
his  master's  overburdened  heart. 


302 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    MUSIC   AGAIN 

THAT  night  Jan  Thoreau  passed  for  the  last 
time  back  into  the  shelter  of  his  forests;  and 
all  that  night  he  traveled,  and  with  each  mile  that 
he  left  behind  him  something  larger  and  bolder  grew 
in  his  breast  until  he  cracked  his  whip  in  the  old 
way,  and  shouted  to  the  dogs  in  the  old  way,  and  the 
blood  in  him  sang  to  the  wild  spirit  of  the  wilderness. 
Once  more  he  was  home.  To  him  the  forest  had 
always  been  home,  filled  with  the  low  voice  of  whis 
pering  winds  and  trees,  and  to-night  it  was  more 
his  home  than  ever.  Lonely  and  sick  at  heart,  with 
no  other  desire  than  to  bury  himself  deeper  and 
deeper  into  it,  he  felt  the  life,  and  sympathy,  and 
love  of  it  creeping  into  his  heart,  grieving  with  him 
in  his  grief,  warming  him  with  its  hope,  pledging 
him  again  the  eternal  friendship  of  its  trees,  its 
mountains,  and  all  of  the  wild  that  it  held  therein, 

303 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

And  from  above  him  the  stars  looked  down  like  a 
billion  tiny  fires  kindled  by  loving  hands  to  light 
his  way — the  stars  that  had  given  him  music,  peace, 
since  he  could  remember,  and  that  had  taught  him 
more  of  the  silent  power  of  God  than  the  lips  of 
man  could  ever  tell.  From  this  time  forth  Jan  Tho- 
reau  knew  that  these  things  would  be  his  life,  his 
god.  A  thousand  times  in  fanciful  play  he  had  given 
life  and  form  to  the  star-shadows  about  him,  to  the 
shadows  of  the  tall  spruce,  the  twisted  shrub,  the 
rocks  and  even  the  mountains.  And  now  it  was  no 
longer  play.  With  each  hour  that  -passed  this  night, 
and  with  each  day  and  night  that  followed,  they 
became  more  real  to  him,  and  his  fires  in  the  black 
gloom  painted  him  pictures  as  they  had  never  painted 
them  before,  and  the  trees  and  the  rocks  and  the 
twisted  shrub  comforted  him  more  and  more  in  his 
loneliness,  and  gave  to  him  the  presence  of  life  in 
their  movement,  in  the  coming  and  going  of  their 
shadow- forms.  Everywhere  they  were  the  same  old 
friends,  unvarying  and  changeless.  The  spruce- 
shadow  of  to-night,  nodding  to  him  in  its  silent  way, 
was  the  same  that  had  nodded  to  him  last  night — 

304 


THE   MUSIC   AGAIN 

a  hundred  nights  ago ;  the  stars  were  the  same,  the 
winds  whispering  to  him  in  the  tree-tops  were  the 
same,  everything  was  as  it  was  yesterday — years  ago 
— unchanged,  never  leaving  him,  never  growing  cold 
in  their  devotion.  He  had  loved  the  forest — now  he 
worshipped  it.  In  its  vast  silence  he  still  possessed 
Melisse.  It  whispered  to  him  still  of  her  old  love, 
of  their  days  and  years  of  happiness,  and  with  his 
forest  he  lived  these  days  over  and  over  again,  and 
when  he  slept  with  his  forest  he  dreamed  of  them. 

Nearly  a  month  passed  before  he  reached  Oxford 
House  and  found  the  sweet-faced  girl  whom  Thorn 
ton  loved.  He  did  as  Thornton  had  asked,  and  went 
on — into  the  north  and  east.  He  had  no  mission  now, 
except  to  roam  in  his  forests.  He  went  down  the 
Hayes,  getting  his  few  supplies  at  Indian  camps,  and 
stopped  at  last,  with  the  beginning  of  spring,  far  up 
on  the  Cutaway.  Here  he  built  himself  a  camp  and 
lived  for  a  time,  setting  dead-falls  for  bear.  Then 
he  struck  north  again,  and  still  east — keeping  always 
away  from  Lac  Bain.  When  the  first  chill  winds  of 
the  bay  brought  warning  of  winter  down  to  him  he 
was  filled  fcr  a  time  with  a  longing  to  strike  north — < 

305 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

and  west,  to  go  once  more  back  to  his  Barren  Lands. 
But,  instead,  he  went  south,  and  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  a  year  after  he  had  left  Lac  Bain  he  built  him 
self  a  cabin  deep  in  the  forest  of  God's  River,  fifty 
miles  from  Oxford  House,  and  trapped  once  more 
for  the  company.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  promise 
to  Thornton,  and  at  Oxford  House  left  word  where 
he  could  be  found  if  the  man  from  civilization 
should  return. 

In  late  mid-winter  Jan  returned  to  Oxford  House 
with  his  furs.  It  was  on  the  night  of  the  day  that 
he  came  into  the  post  that  he  heard  a  Frenchman 
who  had  come  down  from  the  north  speak  of  Laf. 
Bain.  None  noticed  the  change  in  Jan's  face  as  he 
hung  back  in  the  shadows  of  the  company's  store.  A 
little  later  he  followed  the  Frenchman  outside,  and 
stopped  him  where  there  were  no  others  near  to 
overhear. 

"M'sieur,  you  spoke  of  Lac  Bain,"  he  said  in 
French.  "You  have  been  there  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "I  was  there  for  a  week 
waiting  for  the  first  sledge  snow." 

"It  is  my  old  home,"  said  Jan,  trying  to  keep  his 
306 


THE   MUSIC   AGAIN 

voice  natural.  "I  have  wondered — if  there  are 
changes.  You  saw — Cummins — the  factor?" 

vYes,  he  was  there." 

"And — and  Jean  de  Gravois,  the  chief  man?" 

"He  was  away.  Mon  Dieu,  listen  to  that!  The 
dogs  are  fighting  out  there !" 

"A  moment,  m'sieur,"  begged  Jan,  as  the  French 
man  made  a  movement  as  if  to  run  in  the  direction 
of  the  tumult  "The  factor  had  a  daughter — Me- 
lisse— " 

"She  left  Lac  Bain  a  long  time  ago,  m'sieur,"  in 
terrupted  the  trapper,  making  a  tremendous  effort 
to  be  polite  as  he  edged  toward  the  sound  of  battle. 
"M'sieur  Cummins  told  me  that  he  had  not  seen  her 
in  a  long  time — I  believe  it  was  almost  a  year.  Sacre, 
listen  to  that !  They  are  tearing  one  another  to  bits, 
and  they  are  my  dogs,  m'sieur,  for  I  can  tell  their 
voices  among  a  thousand !" 

He  sprang  through  the  darkness  and  Jan  made  a 
movement  to  follow.  Then  he  stopped,  and  turned 
instead  to  the  company's  store.  He  took  his  pack  to 
the  sledge  and  dogs  in  the  edge  of  the  spruce,  and 
Kazan  leaped  to  greet  him  at  the  end  of  his  babiche, 

307 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

This  night  as  Jan  traveled  through  the  forest  he  did 
not  notice  the  stars  or  the  friendly  shadows. 

"A  year/'  he  repeated  to  himself,  again  and  again, 
and  once,  when  Kazan  rubbed  against  his  leg  and 
looked  up  into  his  face,  he  said,  "Ah,  Kazan,  our 
Melisse  went  away  with  the  Englishman.  May  the 
Great  God  give  them  happiness  V 

The  forest  claimed  him  more  than  ever  after 
this.  He  did  not  go  back  to  Oxford  House  in  the 
spring  but  sold  his  furs  to  a  passing  half-breed, 
and  wandered  through  all  of  that  spring  and  sum 
mer  in  the  country  to  the  west.  It  was  January 
when  he  returned  to  his  cabin,  when  the  snows  were 
deepest,  and  three  days  later  he  set  out  to  outfit  at 
the  Hudson's  Bay  post  on  God's  Lake  instead  of  at 
Oxford  House.  It  was  while  they  were  crossing  a 
part  of  the  lake  that  Kazan  leaped  aside  for  an  in 
stant  in  his  traces  and  snapped  at  something  in  the 
snow. 

Jan  saw  the  movement  but  gave  no  attention 
to  it  until  a  little  later,  when  Kazan  stopped  and 
fell  upon  his  belly,  biting  at  the  harness  and  whining 
in  pain.  The  thought  of  Kazan's  sudden  snap  at  the 

308 


THE    MUSIC   AGAIN 

snow  came  to  him  then  like  a  knife-thrust,  and  with 
a  low  cry  of  horror  and  fear  he  fell  upon  his  knees 
beside  the  dog.  Kazan  whimpered  and  his  bushy  tail 
swept  the  snow  as  Jan  lifted  his  great  wolfish  head 
between  his  two  hands.  No  other  sound  came  from 
Jan's  lips  now,  and  slowly  he  drew  the  dog  up  to 
him  until  he  held  him  in  his  arms  as  he  might  have 
held  a  child.  Kazan  stilled  the  whimpering  sounds  in 
his  throat.  His  one  eye  rested  on  his  master's  face, 
faithful,  watching  for  some  sign — for  some  language 
there,  even  as  the  burning  fires  of  a  strange  torture 
gnawed  at  his  life,  and  in  that  eye  Jan  saw  the  deep 
ening  reddish  film  which  he  had  seen  a  hundred  times 
before  in  the  eyes  of  foxes  and  wolves  killed  by  poi 
son  bait. 

A  moan  of  anguish  burst  from  Jan's  lips  and 
he  held  his  face  close  down  against  Kazan's  head, 
and  sobbed  now  like  a  child,  while  Kazan  rubbed  his 
hot  muzzle  against  his  cheek  and  his  muscles  hard 
ened  in  a  last  desire  to  give  battle  to  whatever  was 
giving  his  master  grief.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
Jan  lifted  his  face  from  the  shaggy  head,  and  when 
he  did  he  knew  that  the  last  of  all  love,  of  all  com- 

309 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   BIG   SNOWS 

panionship,  of  all  that  bound  him  to  flesh  and  blood 
in  his  lonely  world,  was  gone.  Kazan  was  dead. 

From  the  sledge  he  took  a  blanket  and  wrapped 
Kazan  in  it,  and  carried  him  a  hundred  yards  back 
from  the  trail.  With  bowed  head  he  came  behind 
his  four  dogs  into  God's  House.  Half  an  hour  later 
he  turned  back  into  the  wilderness  with  his  supplies. 
It  was  dark  when  he  returned  to  where  he  had  left 
Kazan.  He  placed  him  upon  the  sledge  and  the  four 
huskies  whined  as  they  dragged  on  their  burden, 
from  which  the  smell  of  death  came  to  them.  They 
stopped  in  the  deep  forests  beyond  the  lake  and  Jan 
built  a  fire. 

This  night,  as  on  all  nights  in  his  lonely  life,  Jan 
drew  Kazan  close  to  him,  and  he  shivered  as  the 
other  dogs  slunk  back  from  him  suspiciously  and 
the  fire  and  the  spruce  tops  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  forest.  He  looked  at  the  crackling  flames,  at  the 
fitful  shadows  which  they  set  dancing  and  grimacing 
about  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  now  that  they  were 
no  longer  friends,  but  were  taunting  him — gloating 
in  Kazan's  death,  and  telling  him  that  he  was  alone, 
alone,  alone.  He  let  the  fire  die  down,  stirring  it 

310 


THE   MUSIC   AGAIN 

into  life  only  when  the  cold  stiffened  him,  and  when 
at  last  he  fell  into  an  unquiet  slumber  it  was  still  to 
hear  the  spruce  tops  whispering  to  him  that  Kazas 
was  dead,  and  that  in  dying  he  had  broken  the  last 
fragile  link  between  Jan  Thoreau  and  Melisse. 

He  went  on  at  dawn,  with  Kazan  wrapped  in  his 
blanket  on  the  sledge.  He  planned  to  reach  the  cabin 
that  night,  and  the  next  day  he  would  bury  his  old 
comrade.  It  was  dark  when  he  came  to  the  narrow 
plain  that  lay  between  him  and  the  river.  The  sky 
was  brilliant  with  stars  when  he  slowly  climbed  the 
big,  barren  ridge  at  the  foot  of  which  was  his  home. 
At  the  summit  he  stopped  and  seated  himself  on  the 
edge  of  a  rock,  with  nothing  but  a  thousand  miles 
of  space  between  him  and  the  pale  glow  of  the 
northern  lights.  At  his  feet  lay  the  forest,  black  and 
silent,  and  he  looked  down  to  where  he  knew  his 
cabin  was  waiting  for  him,  black  and  silent,  too. 

For  the  first  time  it  came  upon  him  that  this  was 
home — that  the  forest,  and  the  silence,  and  the  lit 
tle  cabin  hidden  under  the  spruce  tops  below  held  a 
deeper  meaning  for  him  than  a  few  hours  before, 
when  Kazan  was  a  leaping,  living  comrade  at  his 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

side.  Kazan  was  dead.  Down  there  he  would  bury 
him.  And  he  had  loved  Kazan ; — he  knew,  now,  as 
he  clutched  his  hands  to  his  aching  breast,  that  he 
would  have  fought  for  Kazan — given  up  his  life  for 
him — as  he  would  have  done  for  a  brother.  Down 
there,  under  the  silent  spruce,  he  would  bury  the 
last  that  had  remained  to  him  of  the  old  life,  and 
there  swelled  up  in  his  heart  a  longing,  almost  a 
prayer,  that  Melisse  might  know  that  he,  Jan  Tho- 
reau,  would  have  nothing  left  to  him  to-morrow  but 
a  grave,  and  that  in  that  grave  was  their  old  chum, 
their  old  playmate — Kazan.  Hot  tears  blinded  Jan's 
eyes  and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
sobbed  as  he  had  sobbed  years  before,  when  in  the 
southern  wilderness  word  came  to  him  that  Melisse 
was  dying. 

"Melisse — Melisse — "  He  moaned  her  name 
aloud,  and  stared  through  the  hot  film  in  his 
eyes  away  into  the  north,  sobbing  to  her,  calling  to 
her  in  his  grief,  and  looking  through  that  thousand 
miles  of  starlit  space  as  though  from  out  of  it  her 
sweet  face  would  come  to  him  once  more.  And  as 
he  called  there  seemed  to  come  to  him  from  out  of 

312 


THE   MUSIC   AGAIN 

that  space  a  sound,  so  sweet,  and  low,  and  tender 
that  his  heart  stood  still  and  he  stood  up  straight  and 
stretched  his  arms  up  to  Heaven,  for  Jan  Thoreau 
knew  that  it  was  the  sound  of  a  violin  that  came  to 
him  from  out  of  the  north — that  Melisse,  an  in 
finity  away,  had  heard  his  call,  his  prayer,  and  was 
playing  for  him  and  Kazan ! 

And  suddenly,  as  he  listened,  his  arms  fell  to  his 
sides,  and  there  shot  into  his  eyes  all  of  the  concen 
trated  light  of  the  stars,  for  the  music  came  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  still  nearer  to  him,  until  he  caught 
Kazan  in  his  arms  and  ran  with  him  down  the  side 
of  the  mountain.  It  died  now  in  the  forest — then 
rose  again,  softer  and  more  distant  it  seemed  to  him, 
luring  him  on  into  the  forest  gloom.  For  a  few  mo 
ments  consciousness  of  all  else  but  that  sound  re 
mained  with  him  only  in  a  dazed,  half  real  way,  and 
as  John  Cummins  had  called  upon  the  angels  at  Lac 
Bain  may  years  ago  when  he,  too,  had  gone  out  into 
the  night  to  meet  this  wonderful  music,  so  Jan  Tho- 
reau's  soul  cried  to  them  now  as  he  clutched  Kazan 
to  him,  and  stumbled  on.  Then,  suddenly,  he  came 
upon  the  cabin,  and  in  the  cabin  there  was  a  light ! 

313 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

Gently  he  laid  Kazan  down  upon  the  snow,  and  for 
a  full  minute  he  stood  and  listened,  and  heard,  lower 
and  sweeter  still,  the  gentle  music  of  the  violin. 
Some  one  was  in  his  cabin — living  hands  were  play 
ing!  After  all  it  was  not  the  spirit  of  Melisse  that 
had  come  to  him  in  the  hour  of  his  deepest  grief, 
and  a  sob  rose  in  his  throat.  He  went  on,  step  by 
step,  and  at  the  door  he  stopped  again,  wondering  if 
he  was  mad,  if  the  spirits  of  the  forest  were  taunt 
ing  him  still,  if — if — 

One  step  more — 

The  Great  God,  he  heard  it  now — the  low,  sweet 
music  of  the  old  Cree  love  song,  played  in  the  old, 
old  way,  with  all  of  its  old  sadness,  its  whispering 
joy,  its  weeping  song  of  life,  of  death,  of  love!  With 
a  great  cry  he  flung  open  the  door  and  leaped  in, 
with  his  arms  reaching  out,  his  eyes  blinded  for  a 
moment  by  the  sudden  light — and  with  a  cry  as 
piercing  as  his  own,  something  ran  through  that  light 
to  meet  him — Melisse,  the  old,  glorious  Melisse, 
crushing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  sobbing  his  name, 
pleading  with  him  in  her  old,  sweet  voice  to  kiss 
her,  kiss  her,  kiss  her — while  Jan  Thoreau  for  the 
1  3H 


THE   MUSIC   AGAIN 

first  time  in  his  life  felt  sweeping  over  him  a  resist* 
less  weakness,  and  in  this  vision  he  knew  that  Jean 
de  Gravois  came  to  him,  too,  and  held  him  in  his 
arms,  and  that  as  the  light  faded  away  from  about 
him  he  still  heard  Melisse  calling  to  him,  felt  her 
arms  about  him,  her  face  crushed  to  his  own.  And 
as  the  deep  gloom  enveloped  him  more  densely,  and 
he  felt  himself  slipping  down  through  it.  he  whis 
pered  to  the  faces  which  he  could  no  longer  see, 

"Kazan — died — to-night — " 

For  a  long  time  Jan  fought  to  throw  off  the  dark 
ness,  and  when  he  succeeded,  and  opened  his  eyes 
again,  he  knew  that  it  was  Melisse  who  was  sitting 
beside  him,  and  that  it  was  Melisse  who  flung  her 
arms  about  him  when  he  awoke  from  his  strange 
sleep,  and  held  his  wild  head  pressed  against  her 
bosom — Melisse,  with  her  glorious  hair  flowing 
about  her  as  he  had  loved  it  in  their  old  days,  and 
with  the  old  love  shining  in  her  eyes,  only  more 
glorious  now,  as  he  heard  her  voice. 

"Jan — Jan — we  have  been  hunting  for  you — so 
long,"  she  cried  softly.  "We  have  been  searching — 
ever  since  you  left  Lac  Bain.  Jan,  dear  Jan,  I  loved 

315 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

you  so — and  you  almost  broke  my  heart.  Dear,  dear 
Jan,"  she  sobbed,  stroking  his  face  now,  "I  know 
why  you  ran  away —  I  know,  and  I  love  you  so  that 
— that  I  will  die  if — you  go  away  again." 

"You  know!"  breathed  Jan.  He  was  in  his  cot, 
and  raised  himself,  clasping  her  beautiful  face  be 
tween  his  two  hands,  staring  at  her  with  the  old 
horror  in  his  eyes.  "You  know — and  you  come — to 
me!" 

"I  love  you,"  said  Melisse.  She  slipped  up  to  him 
and  laid  her  face  upon  his  breast,  and  with  her  fin 
gers  clutched  in  his  long  hair  she  leaned  over  to  him 
and  kissed  him.  "I  love  you !" 

Jan's  arms  closed  about  her,  and  he  bowed  his 
face  so  that  it  was  smothered  in  her  hair  and  he  felt 
against  it  the  joyous  tremble  of  her  bosom. 

"I  love  you,"  she  whispered  again,  and  under  her 
cloud  of  hair  their  lips  met,  and  she  whispered  again, 
with  her  sweet  breath  still  upon  his  lips,  "I  love  you." 

Outside  Jean  de  Gravois  was  dancing  up  and 
down  in  the  starlit  edge  of  the  forest,  and  lowaka 
was  looking  at  him. 

"And  now  what  do  you  think  of  your  Jean  de 
316 


THE    MUSIC   AGAIN 

Gravois  ?"  cried  Jean  for  the  hundredth  time  at  least 
"Now  what  do  you  think  of  him,  my  beautiful  one?" 
and  he  caught  lowaka's  head  in  his  arms,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  too,  and  kissed  her  until  she  pushed 
him  away.  "Was  it  not  right  for  me  to  break  my 
oath  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  tell  Melisse  why  Jan 
Thoreau  had  gone  mad?  Was  it  not  right,  I  say? 
And  did  not  Melisse  do  as  I  told  that  fool  of  a  Jan 
that  she  would  do?  And  didn't  she  hate  the  Eng 
lishman  all  of  the  time?  Eh?  Can  you  not  speak, 
my  raven-haired  angel?" 

He  hugged  lowaka  again  in  his  arms,  and  this 
time  he  did  not  let  her  go,  but  turned  her  face  so 
that  the  starlight  fell  upon  it. 

"And  now  what  if  Jan  Thoreau  still  feels  that  the 
curse  is  upon  him?"  he  asked  softly.  "Ho,  ho,  we 
have  fixed  that — you,  my  sweet  lowaka,  and  your 
husband,  Jean  de  Gravois.  I  have  it — here — in  my 
pocket — the  letter  signed  by  the  sub-commissioner 
at  Prince  Albert,  to  whom  I  told  Jan's  story  when 
I  followed  his  trail  down  there — the  letter  which 
says  that  the  other  woman  died  before  the  man  who 
was  to  be  Jan  Thoreau's  father  married  the  woman 

317 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   BIG    SNOWS 

who  was  to  be  his  mother.  And  now  do  you  under 
stand  why  I  did  not  tell  Melisse  of  this  letter,  ma 
cherief  It  was  to  prove  to  that  fool  of  a  Jan  Thoreau 
that  she  loved  him — zvhatever  he  was.  Now  what 
do  you  think  of  Jean  de  Gravois,  you  daughter  of  a 
princess,  you — you — " 

"Wife  of  the  greatest  man  in  the  world,"  laughed 
lowaka  softly.  "Come,  my  foolish  Jean,  we  can  not 
stand  out  for  ever.  I  am  growing  cold.  And  besides, 
do  you  not  suppose  that  Jan  would  like  to  see  me?" 

"Foolish — foolish — foolish — "  murmured  Jean  as 
they  walked  hand  in  hand  through  the  starlight. 
"She,  my  lowaka,  my  beloved,  says  that  I  am  fool 
ish — and  after  Ms!  Mon  Dieu,  what  can  a  man  do 
to  make  himself  great  in  tht  eyes  of  his  wife?" 


END 


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